University  of  Califor; 
Southern  Regional 
Library  Facility 


t.  ft.  J 


©ID  •GdorlJ)  Series. 


BALLADS  ft*  LYRICS 

OF 
OLD  FRANCE 


NOTE. — Of  all  books  of  modern  verse 
"Ballads  and  Lyrics  of  Old  France: 
with  other  'Poems  by  A.  Lang,  London  : 
Longmans,  Green,  &  Co.  1872.  (Crown 
8vo.  Pp.  x:  1-164)  *s  one  °f  th*  rarest 
and  most  eagerly  sought  for  by  collec- 
tors of  First  Editions. 

From  time  to  time  portions  of  this  vol- 
ume have  been  reprinted  by  Mr.  Lang: 
as  a  whole,  however,  it  remains  introuv- 
able.  THE  OLD  WORLD  edition  presents 
the  text  of  1872  in  its  original  integrity, 
thus  making  once  more  accessible,  a 
body  of  exquisite  translations  other- 
wise excluded  from  all  save  the  most 
determined  bibliophile. 


BALLADS  a  LYRICS  OF 

OLD  FRANCE 

WITH  OTHER  POEMS 

BY  A.  LANG 


Portland,  Maine 
OMAS  »  MOS 

Mdcccxcviy 


This  Second  Edition  on 
Van  GelJer  paper  con- 
sists of  92  j  copies. 


TO 
E.  M.  S. 


CONTENTS 


TRANSLATIONS. 


CHARLES  D'ORLEANS: 

SPRING i 

RONDEL               2 

FRANgois  VILLON: 

RONDEL               3 

ARBOR   AMORIS          ....  4 

BALLAD   OF  THE   GIBBET           .           .  6 

Du  BELLAY: 

HYMN   TO   THE   WINDS     ...  8 

A  VOW   TO    HEAVENLY  VENUS           .  9 

TO    HIS   FRIEND   IN   ELYSIUM             .  IO 

A   SONNET  TO    HEAVENLY   BEAUTY  II 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

REMY  BELLEAU: 

APRIL 12 

RONSARD : 

ROSES 15 

THE   ROSE l6 

TO  THE  MOON        ....  17 

TO  HIS  YOUNG  MISTRESS       .        .  l8 

DEADLY  KISSES       .        .        .        .  19 

OF  HIS  LADY'S  OLD  AGE        .        .  20 

ON  HIS  LADY'S  WAKING        .        .  21 

HIS  LADY'S  DEATH         ...  22 

HIS  LADY'S  TOMB           ...  23 

JACQUES  TAHUREAU: 

SHADOWS  OF  HIS  LADY         .       .  24 

MOONLIGHT 25 

PASSERAT: 

LOVE  IN  MAY         ....  26 
VICTOR  HUGO: 

THE  GRAVE  AND  THE   ROSE               .  28 

THE   GENESIS  OF   BUTTERFLIES        .  29 

MORE   STRONG  THAN   TIME      .           .  30 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

GERARD  DE  NERVAL: 

AN  OLD  TUNE         ....  3! 

ALFRED  DE  MUSSET: 

JUANA 32 

HENRI  MURGER: 

SPRING  IN  THE  STUDENT'S  QUARTER  34 

OLD  LOVES 36 

MUSETTE 38 

BALLADS. 

THE  THREE  CAPTAINS    ...  40 

THE  BRIDGE  OF  DEATH         .        .  42 

LE  PERE  SEVERE     ....  44 

THE  MILK  WHITE  DOE           .        .  46 

A  LADY  OF  HIGH  DEGREE     .        .  48 

LOST  FOR  A  ROSE'S  SAKE      .        .  50 

BALLADS  OF  MODERN  GREECE  : 

THE  BRIGAND'S  GRAVE  ...  51 

THE  SUDDEN  BRIDAL     ...  52 


CONTENTS 
PAGE 

GREEK  FOLK  SONGS: 

IANNOULA 56 

THE  TELL-TALES     ....  57 

AVE. 

TWILIGHT  ON   TWEED  6l 

ONE   FLOWER  ....  62 

METEMPSYCHOSIS  ...  63 

LOST   IN   HADES         ....  64 

A   STAR   IN   THE   NIGHT  .  .  65 

A   SUNSET   ON   YARROW  .  .  66 

HESPEROTHEN. 

THE   SEEKERS   FOR   PH^EACIA  .  69 

A   SONG  OF   PH^ACIA        .  .  .  71 

THE   DEPARTURE   FROM    PH^ACIA  73 

A   BALLAD   OF   DEPARTURE       .  .  75 

THEY  HEAR  THE   SIRENS   FOR  THE 

SECOND   TIME        ....  76 

CIRCE'S   ISLE   REVISITED  .  .  78 

THE   LIMIT   OF   LANDS      ...  79 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

VERSES  ON  PICTURES. 

COLINETTE 83 

A   SUNSET   OF   WATTEAU             .           .  85 

A  NATIVITY  OF  SANDRO   BOTTICELLI  87 

SONGS  AND  SONNETS. 

TWO  HOMES 91 

SUMMER'S  ENDING          ...  92 

NIGHTINGALE  WEATHER        .        .  93 

LOVE  AND  WISDOM         •        •        •  95 

GOOD-BYE 96 

AN   OLD    PRAYER       ....  98 

LOVE'S   MIRACLE        ....  99 

DREAMS IOO 

FAIRY   LAND IOI 

TWO    SONNETS   OF  THE   SIRENS        .  103 

A   LA   BELLE   HELENE        .           .           .  105 

SYLVIE   ET  AURELIE          .           .  IO6 

A   LOST   PATH              ....  108 

THE   SHADE   OF   HELEN               .           .  109 

SONNETS  TO  POETS. 

JACQUES   TAHUREAU  .  .  .113 

xiii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

SONNETS  TO  POETS.    (CONTINUED.) 

FRANC.OIS  VILLON  .        .         .114 

PIERRE  RONSARD    .        .        .        .115 

GERARD   DE   NERVAL         .  .  .         Il6 

THE  DEATH  OF  MIRANDOLA  .       117 

LIST  OF  POETS  TRANSLATED   .        .      121 


TRANSLATIONS 


SPRING. 

CHARLES  D'ORLEANS, 
1391  —  1465. 

THE  NEW-LIVBRIED  YEAR.  —  SIR  HENRY  WOTTON. 

THE  year  has  changed  his  mantle  cold 
Of  wind,  of  rain,  of  bitter  air; 
And  he  goes  clad  in  cloth  of  gold, 

Of  laughing  suns  and  season  fair; 
No  bird  or  beast  of  wood  or  wold 

But  doth  with  cry  or  song  declare 
The  year  lays  down  his  mantle  cold. 
All  founts,  all  rivers,  seaward  rolled, 

The  pleasant  summer  livery  wear, 

With  silver  studs  on  broidered  vair; 
The  world  puts  off  its  raiment  old, 
The  year  lays  down  his  mantle  cold. 


RONDEL. 

CHARLES  D'ORLEANS, 
1391  —  1465. 

TO   HIS   MISTRESS,   TO   SUCCOUR   HIS   HEART   THAT   IS 
BELEAGUERED    BY   JEALOUSY. 

O  TRBNGTHEN,  my  Love,  this  castle  of  my  heart, 
O     And  with  some  store  of  pleasure  give  me  aid, 
For  Jealousy,  with  all  them  of  his  part, 

Strong  siege  about  the  weary  tower  has  laid. 

Nay,  if  to  break  his  bands  thou  art  afraid, 
Too  weak  to  make  his  cruel  force  depart, 
Strengthen  at  least  this  castle  of  my  heart, 

And  with  some  store  of  pleasure  give  me  aid. 
Nay,  let  not  Jealousy,  for  all  his  art 

Be  master,  and  the  tower  in  ruin  laid, 

That  still,  ah  Love  I  thy  gracious  rule  obeyed. 
Advance,  and  give  me  succour  of  thy  part; 
Strengthen,  my  Love,  this  castle  of  my  heart. 


RONDEL. 

FRANCOIS  VILLON, 
1460. 


OOD-BYE  !  the  tears  are  in  my  eyes  ; 
Farewell,  farewell,  my  prettiest; 

Farewell,  of  women  born  the  best; 
Good-bye  !  the  saddest  of  good-byes. 
Farewell  !  with  many  vows  and  sighs 

My  sad  heart  leaves  you  to  your  rest; 
Farewell  !  the  tears  are  in  my  eyes  ; 
Farewell  I  from  you  my  miseries 

Are  more  than  now  may  be  confessed, 

And  most  by  thee  have  I  been  blessed, 
Yea,  and  for  thee  have  wasted  sighs; 
Good-bye  !  the  last  of  my  good-byes. 


ARBOR  AMORIS. 

FRANgois  VILLON, 
1460. 

I  HAVE  a  tree,  a  graft  of  Love, 
That  in  my  heart  has  taken  root ; 
Sad  are  the  buds  and  blooms  thereof, 

And  bitter  sorrow  is  its  fruit ; 

Yet,  since  it  was  a  tender  shoot, 
So  greatly  hath  its  shadow  spread, 
That  underneath  all  joy  is  dead, 

And  all  my  pleasant  days  are  flown, 
Nor  can  I  slay  it,  nor  instead 

Plant  any  tree,  save  this  alone. 

Ah,  yet,  for  long  and  long  enough 

My  tears  were  rain  about  its  root, 
And  though  the  fruit  be  harsh  thereof, 

I  scarcely  looked  for  better  fruit 

Than  this,  that  carefully  I  put 
In  garner,  for  the  bitter  bread 
Whereon  my  weary  life  is  fed : 

Ah,  better  were  the  soil  unsown 
That  bears  such  growths;  but  Love  instead 

Will  plant  no  tree,  but  this  alone. 

Ah,  would  that  this  new  spring,  whereof 
The  leaves  and  flowers  flush  into  shoot, 

I  might  have  succour  and  aid  of  Love, 
To  prune  these  branches  at  the  root, 
That  long  have  borne  such  bitter  fruit, 


And  graft  a  new  bough,  comforted 
With  happy  blossoms  white  and  red ; 

So  pleasure  should  for  pain  atone, 
Nor  Love  slay  this  tree,  nor  instead 

Plant  any  tree,  but  this  alone. 

L'ENVOY. 

Princess,  by  whom  my  hope  is  fed, 
My  heart  thee  prays  in  lowlihead 

To  prune  the  ill  boughs  overgrown, 
Nor  slay  Love's  tree,  nor  plant  instead 

Another  tree,  save  this  alone. 


BALLAD  OF  THE  GIBBET. 


AN  EPITAPH  IN  THE  FORM  OF  A  BALLAD  THAT 
FRANCOIS  VILLON  WROTE  OF  HIMSELF  AND  HIS 
COMPANY,  THEY  EXPECTING  SHORTLY  TO  BS 
HANGED. 

O  ROTHERS  and  men  that  shall  after  us  be, 
ID     Let  not  your  hearts  be  hard  to  us : 
For  pitying  this  our  misery 

Ye  shall  find  God  the  more  piteous, 

Look  on  us  six  that  are  hanging  thus, 
And  for  the  flesh  that  so  much  we  cherished 
How  it  is  eaten  of  birds  and  perished, 

And  ashes  and  dust  fill  our  bones'  place, 
Mock  not  at  us  that  so  feeble  be, 

But  pray  God  pardon  us  out  of  His  grace. 

Listen,  we  pray  you,  and  look  not  in  scorn, 

Though  justly,  in  sooth,  we  are  cast  to  die; 
Ye  wot  no  man  so  wise  is  born 

That  keeps  his  wisdom  constantly. 

Be  ye  then  merciful,  and  cry 
To  Mary's  Son  that  is  piteous, 
That  His  mercy  take  no  stain  from  us, 

Saving  us  out  of  the  fiery  place. 
We  are  but  dead,  let  no  soul  deny 

To  pray  God  succour  us  out  of  His  grace. 

The  rain  out  of  heaven  has  washed  us  clean, 
The  sun  has  scorched  us  black  and  bare, 


Ravens  and  rooks  have  pecked  at  our  eyne, 

And  feathered  their  nests  with  our  beards 
and  hair. 

Round  are  we  tossed,  and  here  and  there, 
This  way  and  that,  at  the  wild  wind's  will, 
Never  a  moment  my  body  is  still ; 

Birds  they  are  busy  about  my  face. 
Live  not  as  we,  nor  fare  as  we  fare ; 

Pray  God  pardon  us  out  of  His  grace. 

L'ENVOY. 

Prince  Jesus,  Master  of  all,  to  thee 
We  pray  Hell  gain  no  mastery, 

That  we  come  never  anear  that  place ; 
And  ye  men,  make  no  mockery, 

Pray  God  pardon  us  out  of  His  grace. 


HYMN  TO  THE  WINDS. 

THE  WINDS  ARE  INVOKED  BY  THE  WINNOWERS 
OF  CORN. 

Du  BELLAY, 
I550- 

To  you,  troop  so  fleet, 
That  with  winged  wandering  feet, 

Through  the  wide  world  pass, 
And  with  soft  murmuring 
Toss  the  green  shades  of  spring 

In  woods  and  grass, 
Lily  and  violet 
I  give,  and  blossoms  wet, 

Roses  and  dew ; 
This  branch  of  blushing  roses, 
Whose  fresh  bud  uncloses, 

Wind-flowers  too. 
Ah,  winnow  with  sweet  breath, 
Winnow  the  holt  and  heath, 

Round  this  retreat; 
Where  all  the  golden  morn 
We  fan  the  gold  o'  the  corn, 

In  the  sun's  heat. 


A  VOW  TO  HEAVENLY  VENUS. 


Du  BELLAY, 


WE  that  with  like  hearts  love,  we  lovers  twain, 
New  wedded  in  the  village  by  thy  fane, 
Lady  of  all  chaste  love,  to  thee  it  is 
We  bring  these  amaranths,  these  white  lilies, 
A  sign,  and  sacrifice  ;  may  Love,  we  pray, 
Like  amaranthine  flowers,  feel  no  decay; 
Like  these  cool  lilies  may  our  loves  remain, 
Perfect  and  pure,  and  know  not  any  stain  ; 
And  be  our  hearts,  from  this  thy  holy  hour, 
Bound  each  to  each,  like  flower  to  wedded  flower. 


TO  HIS  FRIEND  IN  ELYSIUM. 

Du  BELLAY, 
1550. 

So  long  you  wandered  on  the  dusky  plain, 
Where  flit  the  shadows  with  their  endless  cry, 
You  reach  the  shore  where  all  the  world  goes  by, 
You  leave  the  strife,  the  slavery,  the  pain ; 
But  we,  but  we,  the  mortals  that  remain 
In  vain  stretch  hands ;  for  Charon  sullenly 
Drives  us  afar,  we  may  not  come  anigh 
Till  that  last  mystic  obolus  we  gain. 

But  you  are  happy  in  the  quiet  place, 
And  with  the  learned  lover  of  old  days, 
And  with  your  love,  you  wander  ever-more 
In  the  dim  woods,  and  drink  forgetfulness 
Of  us  your  friends,  a  weary  crowd  that  press 
About  the  gate,  or  labour  at  the  oar. 


10 


A  SONNET  TO  HEAVENLY  BEAUTY. 

Du  BELLA Y, 
1550. 

IF  this  our  little  life  is  but  a  day  \ 

In  the  Eternal, — if  the  years  in  vain 
Toil  after  hours  that  never  come  again, — 
If  everything  that  hath  been  must  decay, 
Why  dreamest  thou  of  joys  that  pass  away, 
My  soul,  that  my  sad  body  doth  restrain  ? 
Why  of  the  moment's  pleasure  art  thou  fain  ? 
Nay,  thou  hast  wings,  —  nay,  seek  another  stay. 

There  is  the  joy  whereto  each  soul  aspires, 
And  there  the  rest  that  all  the  world  desires, 

And  there  is  love,  and  peace,  and  gracious  mirth ; 
And  there  in  the  most  highest  heavens  shalt  thou 
Behold  the  Very  Beauty,  whereof  now 

Thou  worshippest  the  shadow  upon  earth. 


ii 


APRIL. 

REMY  BELLEAU, 
1560. 

APRIL,  pride  of  woodland  ways, 
Of  glad  days, 
April,  bringing  hope  of  prime, 

To  the  young  flowers  that  beneath 
Their  bud  sheath 
Are  guarded  in  their  tender  time ; 

April,  pride  of  fields  that  be 

Green  and  free, 
That  in  fashion  glad  and  gay, 
Stud  with  flowers,  red  and  blue, 

Every  hue, 
Their  jewelled  spring  array; 

April,  pride  of  murmuring 

Winds  of  spring, 
That  beneath  the  winnowed  air, 
Trap  with  subtle  nets  and  sweet 

Flora's  feet, 
Flora's  feet,  the  fleet  and  fair; 

April,  by  thy  hand  caressed, 

From  her  breast 
Nature  scatters  everywhere 
Handfuls  of  all  sweet  perfumes, 

Buds  and  blooms, 
Making  faint  the  earth  and  air. 


April,  joy  of  the  green  hours, 

Clothes  with  flowers 
Over  all  her  locks  of  gold 
My  sweet  Lady ;  and  her  breast 

With  the  blest 
Buds  of  summer  manifold. 

April,  with  thy  gracious  wiles, 

Like  the  smiles, 

Smiles  of  Venus ;  and  thy  breath 
Like  her  breath,  the  Gods'  delight, 

(From  their  height 
They  take  the  happy  air  beneath ; ) 

It  is  thou  that,  of  thy  grace, 

From  their  place 
In  the  far-off  isles  dost  bring 
Swallows  over  earth  and  sea, 

Glad  to  be 
Messengers  of  thee,  and  Spring. 

Daffodil  and  eglantine, 

And  woodbine, 
Lily,  violet,  and  rose 
Plentiful  in  April  fair, 

To  the  air, 
Their  pretty  petals  do  unclose. 

Nightingales  ye  now  may  hear, 

Piercing  clear,      ' 
Singing  in  the  deepest  shade; 

'3 


Many  and  many  a  babbled  note 

Chime  and  float, 
Woodland  music  through  the  glade. 

April,  all  to  welcome  thee, 

Spring  sets  free 

Ancient  dames,  and  with  low  breath 
Wakes  the  ashes  grey  and  old 

That  the  cold 
Chilled  within  our  hearts  to  death. 

Thou  beholdest  in  the  warm 

Hours,  the  swarm 
Of  the  thievish  bees,  that  flies 

Evermore  from  bloom  to  bloom 

For  perfume, 
Hid  away  in  tiny  thighs. 

Her  cool  shadows  May  can  boast, 

Fruits  almost 

Ripe,  and  gifts  of  fertile  dew, 
Manna-sweet  and  honey-sweet, 

That  complete 
Her  flower  garland  fresh  and  new. 

Nay,  but  I  will  give  my  praise, 

To  these  days, 

Named  with  the  glad  name  of  Her » 
That  from  out  the  foam  o'  the  sea 

Came  to  be 
Sudden  light  on  earth  and  air. 

i  Aphrodite — Avril. 


ROSES. 

RONSARD, 
1550. 

I  SEND  you  here  a  wreath  of  blossoms  blown, 
And  woven  flowers  at  sunset  gathered, 
Another  dawn  had  seen  them  ruined,  and  shed 
Loose  leaves  upon  the  grass  at  random  strown. 
By  this  their  sure  example,  be  it  known, 
That  all  your  beauties,  now  in  perfect  flower, 
Shall  fade  as  these,  and  wither  in  an  hour, 
Flower-like,  and  brief  of  days,  as  the  flower  sown. 

Ah,  time  is  flying,  lady — time  is  flying; 

Nay,  'tis  not  time  that  flies  but  we  that  go, 
Who  in  short  space  shall  be  in  churchyard  lying, 

And  of  our  loving  parley  none  shall  know, 
Nor  any  man  consider  what  we  were ; 
Be  therefore  kind,  my  love,  whiles  thou  art  fair. 


THE  ROSE. 
RONSARD, 

'55°- 

SEE,  Mignonne,  hath  not  the  Rose, 
That  this  moniing  did  unclose 
Her  purple  mantle  to  the  light, 
Lost,  before  the  day  be  dead, 
The  glory  of  her  raiment  red, 

Her  colour,  bright  as  yours  is  bright? 

Ah,  Mignonne,  in  how  few  hours, 
The  petals  of  her  purple  flowers 

All  have  faded,  fallen,  died; 
Sad  Nature,  mother  ruinous, 
That  seest  thy  fair  child  perish  thus 

'Twixt  matin  song  and  even  tide. 

Hear  me,  my  darling,  speaking  sooth, 
Gather  the  fleet  flower  of  your  youth, 

Take  ye  your  pleasure  at  the  best ; 
Be  merry  ere  your  beauty  flit, 
For  length  of  days  will  tarnish  it 

Like  roses  that  were  loveliest. 


16 


TO  THE  MOON. 
RON  SARD, 

1550- 

HIDE  this  one  night  thy  crescent,  kindly  Moon; 
So  shall  Endymion  faithful  prove,  and  rest 

Loving  and  unawakened  on  thy  breast ; 
So  shall  no  foul  enchanter  importune 
Thy  quiet  course ;  for  now  the  night  is  boon, 

And  through  the  friendly  night  unseen  I  fare, 

Who  dread  the  face  of  foemen  unaware, 
And  watch  of  hostile  spies  in  the  bright  noon. 

Thou  knowest,  Moon,  the  bitter  power  of  Love ; 

'Tis  told  how  shepherd  Pan  found  ways  to  move, 
For  little  price,  thy  heart;  and  of  your  grace, 

Sweet  stars,  be  kind  to  this  not  alien  fire, 

Because  on  earth  ye  did  not  scorn  desire, 
Bethink  ye,  now  ye  hold  your  heavenly  place. 


TO  HIS  YOUNG  MISTRESS. 

RONSARD, 


FAIR  flower  of  fifteen  springs,  that  still 
Art  scarcely  blossomed  from  the  bud, 
Yet  hast  such  store  of  evil  will, 
A  heart  so  full  of  hardihood, 
Seeking  to  hide  in  friendly  wise 
The  mischief  of  your  mocking  eyes. 

If  you  have  pity,  child,  give  o'er; 

Give  back  the  heart  you  stole  from  me, 
Pirate,  setting  so  little  store 
On  this  your  captive  from  Love's  sea, 
Holding  his  misery  for  gain, 
And  making  pleasure  of  his  pain. 

Another,  not  so  fair  of  face, 

But  far  more  pitiful  than  you, 
Would  take  my  heart,  if  of  his  grace, 
My  heart  would  give  her  of  Love's  due; 
And  she  shall  have  it,  since  I  find 
That  you  are  cruel  and  unkind. 

Nay,  I  would  rather  that  it  died, 

Within  your  white  hands  prisoning, 
Would  rather  that  it  still  abide 
In  your  ungentle  comforting, 
Than  change  its  faith,  and  seek  to  her 
That  is  more  kind,  but  not  so  fair. 


18 


DEADLY  KISSES. 
RON  SARD, 

1550. 

AH  take  these  lips  away ;  no  more, 
No  more  such  kisses  give  to  me. 

My  spirit  faints  for  joy;  I  see 
Through  mists  of  death  the  dreamy  shore, 
And  meadows  by  the  water-side, 

Where  all  about  the  Hollow  Land 
Fare  the  sweet  singers  that  have  died, 

With  their  lost  ladies,  hand  in  hand; 
Ah,  Love,  how  fireless  are  their  eyes, 

How  pale  their  lips  that  kiss  and  smile ! 

So  mine  must  be  in  little  while 
If  thou  wilt  kiss  me  in  such  wise. 


OF  HIS  LADY'S  OLD  AGE. 

RONSARD, 


WHEN  you  are  very  old,  at  evening 
You'll  sit  and  spin  beside  the  fire,  and  say, 
Humming  my  songs,  '  Ah  well,  ah  well-a-day  ! 
When  I  was  young,  of  me  did  Ronsard  sing.' 
None  of  your  maidens  that  doth  hear  the  thing, 
Albeit  with  her  weary  task  foredone, 
But  wakens  at  my  name,  and  calls  you  one 
Blest,  to  be  held  in  long  remembering. 

I  shall  be  low  beneath  the  earth,  and  laid 
On  sleep,  a  phantom  in  the  myrtle  shade, 

While  you  beside  the  fire,  a  grandame  grey, 
My  love,  your  pride,  remember  and  regret  ; 
Ah,  love  me,  love  !  we  may  be  happy  yet, 

And  gather  roses,  while  'tis  called  to-day. 


20 


ON  HIS  LADY'S  WAKING. 

RONSARD, 


MY  lady  woke  upon  a  morning  fair, 
What  time  Apollo's  chariot  takes  the  skies, 
And  fain  to  fill  with  arrows  from  her  eyes 
His  empty  quiver,  Love  was  standing  there  : 
I  saw  two  apples  that  her  breast  doth  bear 
None  such  the  close  of  the  Hesperides 
Yields;  nor  hath  Venus  any  such  as  these, 
Nor  she  that  had  of  nursling  Mars  the  care. 

Even  such  a  bosom,  and  so  fair  it  was, 
Pure  as  the  perfect  work  of  Phidias, 

That  sad  Andromeda's  discomfiture 
Left  bare,  when  Perseus  passed  her  on  a  day, 
And  pale  as  Death  for  fear  of  Death  she  lay, 

With  breast  as  marble  cold,  as  marble  pure. 


HIS  LADY'S  DEATH. 

RONSARD, 
1550. 

TWAIN  that  were  foes,  while  Mary  lived,  are  fled ; 
One  laurel-crowned  abides  in  heaven,  and  one 
Beneath  the  earth  has  fared,  a  fallen  sun, 
A  light  of  love  among  the  loveless  dead. 
The  first  is  Chastity,  that  vanquished 
The  archer  Love,  that  held  joint  empery 
With  the  sweet  beauty  that  made  war  on  me, 
When  laughter  of  lips  with  laughing  eyes  was  wed. 

Their  strife  the  Fates  have  closed,  with  stern  control, 
The  earth  holds  her  fair  body,  and  her  soul 

An  angel  with  glad  angels  triumpheth; 
Love  has  no  more  than  he  can  do ;  desire 
Is  buried,  and  my  heart  a  faded  fire, 

And  for  Death's  sake,  I  am  in  love  with  Death. 


\ 


22 


HIS  LADY'S  TOMB. 
RON  SARD, 

1550- 

As  in  the  gardens,  all  through  May,  the  rose, 
Lovely,  and  young,  and  fair  apparelled, 
Makes  sunrise  jealous  of  her  rosy  red, 
When  dawn  upon  the  dew  of  dawning  glows ; 
Graces  and  Loves  within  her  breast  repose, 

The  woods  are  faint  with  the  sweet  odour  shed, 
Till  rains  and  heavy  suns  have  smitten  dead 
The  languid  flower,  and  the  loose  leaves  unclose, — 

So  this,  the  perfect  beauty  of  our  days, 

When  earth  and  heaven  were  vocal  of  her  praise, 

The  fates  have  slain,  and  her  sweet  soul  reposes ; 
And  tears  I  bring,  and  sighs,  and  on  her  tomb 
Pour  milk,  and  scatter  buds  of  many  a  bloom, 

That  dead,  as  living,  she  may  be  with  roses. 


SHADOWS  OF  HIS  LADY. 

JACQUES  TAHUREAU, 
I527  —  I555- 

WITHIN  the  sand  of  what  far  river  lies 
The  gold  that  gleams  in  tresses  of  my  Love  ? 
What  highest  circle  of  the  Heavens  above 
Is  jewelled  with  such  stars  as  are  her  eyes? 
And  where  is  the  rich  sea  whose  coral  vies 
With  her  red  lips,  that  cannot  kiss  enough  ? 
What  dawn-lit  garden  knew  the  rose,  whereof 
The  fled  soul  lives  in  her  cheeks'  rosy  guise  ? 

What  Parian  marble  that  is  loveliest, 

Can  match  the  whiteness  of  her  brow  and  breast  ? 

When  drew  she  breath  from  the  Sabasan  glade? 
O  happy  rock  and  river,  sky  and  sea, 
Gardens,  and  glades  Sabaean,  all  that  be 

The  far-off  splendid  semblance  of  my  maid  ! 


MOONLIGHT. 

JACQUES  TAHUREAU, 

I527  —  I555- 

THE  high  Midnight  was  garlanding  her  head 
With  many  a  shining  star  in  shining  skies, 
And,  of  her  grace,  a  slumber  on  mine  eyes, 

And,  after  sorrow,  quietness  was  shed. 
Far  in  dim  fields  cicalas  jargoned 

A  thin  shrill  clamour  of  complaints  and  cries ; 
And  all  the  woods  were  pallid,  in  strange  wise, 
With  pallor  of  the  sad  moon  overspread. 

Then  came  my  lady  to  that  lonely  place, 
And,  from  her  palfrey  stooping,  did  embrace 
And  hang  upon  my  neck,  and  kissed  me  over; 
Wherefore  the  day  is  far  less  dear  than  night, 
And  sweeter  is  the  shadow  than  the  light, 
Since  night  has  made  me  such  a  happy  lover. 


LOVE  IN  MAY. 

PASSERAT, 
1580. 


FF  with  sleep,  love,  up  from  bed, 

This  fair  morn  ; 
See,  for  our  eyes  the  rosy  red 

New  dawn  is  bom  ; 
Now  that  skies  are  glad  and  gay 
In  this  gracious  month  of  May, 

Love  me,  sweet, 

Fill  my  joy  in  brimming  measure, 
In  this  world  he  hath  no  pleasure, 

That  will  none  of  it. 

Come,  love,  through  the  woods  of  spring, 

Come  walk  with  me  ; 
Listen,  the  sweet  birds  jargoning 

From  tree  to  tree. 
List  and  listen,  over  all 
Nightingale  most  musical 

That  ceases  never; 
Grief  begone,  and  let  us  be 
For  a  space  as  glad  as  he  ; 

Time's  flitting  ever. 

Old  Time,  that  loves  not  lovers,  wears 

Wings  swift  in  flight  ; 
All  our  happy  life  he  bears 

Far  in  the  night. 


26 


Old  and  wrinkled  on  a  day, 
Sad  and  weary  shall  you  say, 

4  Ah,  fool  was  I, 

That  took  no  pleasure  in  the  grace 
Of  the  flower  that  from  my  face 

Time  has  seen  die.' 

Leave  then  sorrow,  teen,  and  tears, 

Till  we  be  old; 
Young  we  are,  and  of  our  years 

Till  youth  be  cold 

Pluck  the  flower;  while  spring  is  gay 
In  this  happy  month  of  May 

Love  me,  love; 

Fill  our  joy  in  brimming  measure; 
In  this  world  he  hath  no  pleasure 

That  will  none  thereof. 


THE  GRAVE  AND  THE  ROSE. 


VICTOR  HUGO. 

THE  Grave  said  to  the  Rose, 
'  What  of  the  dews  of  dawn, 
Love's  flower,  what  end  is  theirs?' 

'And  what  of  spirits  flown, 
The  souls  whereon  doth  close 

The  tomb's  mouth  unawares?' 
The  Rose  said  to  the  Grave. 

The  Rose  said,  '  In  the  shade 
From  the  dawn's  tears  is  made 

A  perfume  faint  and  strange, 
Amber  and  honey  sweet.' 
'And  all  the  spirits  fleet 

Do  suffer  a  sky-change 

More  strangely  than  the  dew, 
To  God's  own  angel's  new,' 

The  Grave  said  to  the  Rose. 


28 


THE  GENESIS  OF  BUTTERFLIES. 

VICTOR  HUGO. 

THE  dawn  is  smiling  on  the  dew  that  covers 
The  tearful  roses ;  lo,  the  little  lovers 
That  kiss  the  buds,  and  all  the  flutterings 
In  jasmine  bloom,  and  privet,  of  white  wings, 
That  go  and  come,  and  fly,  and  peep  and  hide, 
With  muffled  music,  murmured  far  and  wide! 
Ah,  Spring  time,  when  we  think  of  all  the  lays 
That  dreamy  lovers  send  to  dreamy  mays, 
Of  the  fond  hearts  within  a  billet  bound, 
Of  all  the  soft  silk  paper  that  pens  wound, 
The  messages  of  love  that  mortals  write 
Filled  with  intoxication  of  delight, 
Written  in  April,  and  before  the  May  time 
Shredded  and  flown,  play  things  for  the  wind's  playtime, 
We  dream  that  all  white  butterflies  above, 
Who  seek  through  clouds  or  waters  souls  to  love, 
And  leave  their  lady  mistress  in  despair, 
To  flit  to  flowers,  as  kinder  and  more  fair, 
Are  but  torn  love-letters,  that  through  the  skies 
Flutter,  and  float,  and  change  to  Butterflies. 


29 


MORE  STRONG  THAN  TIME. 

VICTOR  HUGO. 

SINCE  I  have  set  my  lips  to  your  full  cup,  my  sweet, 
Since  I  my  pallid  face  between  your  hands  have  laid, 
Since  I  have  known  your  soul,  and  all  the  bloom  of  it, 
And  all  the  perfume  rare,  now  buried  in  the  shade ; 

Since  it  was  given  to  me  to  hear  one  happy  while, 
The  words  wherein  your  heart  spoke  all  its  mysteries, 

Since  I  have  seen  you  weep,  and  since  I  have  seen  you 

smile, 
Your  lips  upon  my  lips,  and  your  eyes  upon  my  eyes ; 

Since  I  have  known  above  my  forehead  glance  and 

gleam, 

A  ray,  a  single  ray,  of  your  star,  veiled  always, 
Since  I  have  felt  the  fall,  upon  my  lifetime's  stream, 
Of  one  rose  petal  plucked  from  the  roses  of  your 
days; 

I  now  am  bold  to  say  to  the  swift  changing  hours, 
Pass,  pass  upon  your  way,  for  I  grow  never  old, 

Fleet  to  the  dark  abysm  with  all  your  fading  flowers, 
One  rose  that  none  may  pluck,  within  my  heart  I 
hold. 

Your  flying  wings  may  smite,  but  they  can  never  spill 
The  cup  fulfilled  of  love,  from  which  my  lips  are  wet ; 

My  heart  has  far  more  fire  than  you  have  frost  to  chill, 
My  soul  more  love  than  you  can  make  my  soul  forget. 


AN  OLD  TUNE. 


GERARD  DE  NERVAL. 

THHERE  is  an  air  for  which  I  would  disown 
1       Mozart's,  Rossini's,  Weber's  melodies, — 
A  sweet  sad  air  that  languishes  and  sighs, 
And  keeps  its  secret  charm  for  me  alone. 

Whene'er  I  hear  that  music  vague  and  old, 
Two  hundred  years  are  mist  that  rolls  away; 

The  thirteenth  Louis  reigns,  and  I  behold 
A  green  land  golden  in  the  dying  day. 

An  old  red  castle,  strong  with  stony  towers, 
The  windows  gay  with  many  coloured  glass; 

Wide  plains,  and  rivers  flowing  among  flowers, 
That  bathe  the  castle  basement  as  they  pass. 

In  antique  weed,  with  dark  eyes  and  gold  hair, 
A  lady  looks  forth  from  her  window  high ; 

It  may  be  that  I  knew  and  found  her  fair, 
In  some  forgotten  life,  long  time  gone  by. 


JUANA. 

ALFRED  DE  MUSSET. 

AGAIN  I  see  you,  ah  my  queen, 
Of  all  my  old  loves  that  have  been, 
The  first  love,  and  the  tenderest ; 
Do  you  remember  or  forget  — 
Ah  me,  for  I  remember  yet  — 

How  the  last  summer  days  were  blest  ? 

Ah  lady,  when  we  think  of  this, 
The  foolish  hours  of  youth  and  bliss, 

How  fleet,  how  sweet,  how  hard  to  hold! 
How  old  we  are,  ere  spring  be  green  ! 
You  touch  the  limit  of  eighteen 

And  I  am  twenty  winters  old. 

My  rose,  that  mid  the  red  roses, 
Was  brightest,  ah,  how  pale  she  is ! 

Yet  keeps  the  beauty  of  her  prime ; 
Child,  never  Spanish  lady's  face 
Was  lovely  with  so  wild  a  grace ; 

Remember  the  dead  summer  time. 

Think  of  our  loves,  our  feuds  of  old, 
And  how  you  gave  your  chain  of  gold 

To  me  for  a  peace  offering; 
And  how  all  night  I  lay  awake 
To  touch  and  kiss  it  for  your  sake, — 

To  touch  and  kiss  the  lifeless  thing. 


Lady,  beware,  for  all  we  say, 
This  Love  shall  live  another  day, 

Awakened  from  his  deathly  sleep ; 
The  heart  that  once  has  been  your  shrino 
For  other  loves  is  too  divine; 

A  home,  my  dear,  too  wide  and  deep. 

What  did  I  say — why  do  I  dream? 
Why  should  I  struggle  with  the  stream 

Whose  waves  return  not  any  day  ? 
Close  heart,  and  eyes,  and  arms  from  me; 
Farewell,  farewell !  so  must  it  be, 

So  runs,  so  runs,  the  world  away. 

The  season  bears  upon  its  wing 

The  swallows  and  the  songs  of  spring, 

And  days  that  were,  and  days  that  flit; 
The  loved  lost  hours  are  far  away; 
And  hope  and  fame  are  scattered  spray 
For  me,  that  gave  you  love  a  day 

For  you  that  not  remember  it. 


33 


SPRING  IN  THE  STUDENT'S  QUARTER. 


HENRI  MURGER. 

WINTER  is  passing,  and  the  bells 
For  ever  with  their  silver  lay 
Murmur  a  melody  that  tells 

Of  April  and  of  Easter  day. 
High  in  sweet  air  the  light  vane  sets, 

The  weathercocks  all  southward  twirl ; 
A  sou  will  buy  her  violets 
And  make  Nini  a  happy  girl. 

The  winter  to  the  poor  was  sore, 

Counting  the  weary  winter  days, 
Watching  his  little  fire-wood  store, 

The  bitter  snow-flakes  fell  always ; 
And  now  his  last  log  dimly  gleamed, 

Lighting  the  room  with  feeble  glare, 
Half  cinder  and  half  smoke  it  seemed 

That  the  wind  wafted  into  air. 

Pilgrims  from  ocean  and  far  isles 
See  where  the  east  is  reddening, 

The  flocks  that  fly  a  thousand  miles 
From  sunsetting  to  sunsetting ; 


Look  up,  look  out,  behold  the  swallows, 
The  throats  that  twitter,  the  wings  that  beat; 

And  on  their  song  the  summer  follows, 
And  in  the  summer  life  is  sweet. 


With  the  green  tender  buds  that  know 

The  shoot  and  sap  of  lusty  spring 
My  neighbour  of  a  year  ago 

Her  casement,  see,  is  opening; 
Through  all  the  bitter  months  that  were, 

Forth  from  her  nest  she  dared  not  flee, 
She  was  a  study  for  Boucher, 

She  now  might  sit  to  Gavarni. 


35 


OLD  LOVES. 

HENRI  MURGER. 

LOUISE,  have  you  forgotten  yet 
The  corner  of  the  flowery  land, 
The  ancient  garden  where  we  met, 

My  hand  that  trembled  in  your  hand  ? 
Our  lips  found  words  scarce  sweet  enough, 

As  low  beneath  the  willow-trees 

We  sat;  have  you  forgotten,  love? 

Do  you  remember,  love  Louise  ? 

Marie,  have  you  forgotten  yet 

The  loving  barter  that  we  made  ? 
The  rings  we  changed,  the  suns  that  set, 

The  woods  fulfilled  with  sun  and  shade  ? 
The  fountains  that  were  musical 

By  many  an  ancient  trysting  tree  — 
Marie,  have  you  forgotten  all  ? 

Do  you  remember,  love  Marie  ? 

Christine,  do  you  remember  yet 

Your  room  with  scents  and  roses  gay  ? 
My  garret  —  near  the  sky  'twas  set — 

The  April  hours,  the  nights  of  May  ? 
The  clear  calm  nights — the  stars  above 

That  whispered  they  were  fairest  seen 
Through  no  cloud-veil  ?    Remember,  love ! 

Do  you  remember,  love  Christine  ? 


Louise  is  dead,  and,  well-a-day  1 

Marie  a  sadder  path  has  ta'en ; 
And  pale  Christine  has  passed  away 

In  southern  suns  to  bloom  again. 
Alas !  for  one  and  all  of  us  — 

Marie,  Louise,  Christine  forget ; 
Our  bower  of  love  is  ruinous, 

And  I  alone  remember  yet. 


37 


MUSETTE. 

HENRI  MURGER, 
1850. 

\/ESTERDAY,  watching  the  swallows'  flight 

1       That  bring  the  spring  and  the  seasons  fair, 
A  moment  I  thought  of  the  beauty  bright 

Who  loved  me,  when  she  had  time  to  spare ; 
And  dreamily,  dreamily  all  the  day, 

I  mused  on  the  calendar  of  the  year, 
The  year  so  near  and  so  far  away, 

When  you  were  lief,  and  when  I  was  dear. 

Your  memory  has  not  had  time  to  pass ; 

My  youth  has  days  of  its  lifetime  yet ; 
If  you  only  knocked  at  the  door,  alas, 

My  heart  would  open  the  door,  Musette  1 
Still  at  your  name  must  my  sad  heart  beat ; 

Ah  Muse,  ah  maiden  of  faithlessness ! 
Return  for  a  moment,  and  deign  to  eat 

The  bread  that  pleasure  was  wont  to  bless. 

The  tables  and  curtains,  the  chairs  and  all, 

Friends  of  our  pleasure  that  looked  on  our  pain, 

Are  glad  with  the  gladness  of  festival, 
Hoping  to  see  you  at  home  again ; 


Come,  let  the  days  of  their  mourning  pass, 
The  silent  friends  that  are  sad  for  you  yet ; 

The  little  sofa,  the  great  wine  glass  — 

For  know  you  had  often  my  share,  Musette. 

Come,  you  shall  wear  the  raiment  white 

You  wore  of  old,  when  the  world  was  gay, 
We  will  wander  in  woods  of  the  heart's  delight 

The  whole  of  the  Sunday  holiday. 
Come,  we  will  sit  by  the  wayside  inn, 

Come,  and  your  song  will  gain  force  to  fly, 
Dipping  its  wing  in  the  clear  and  thin 

Wine,  as  of  old,  ere  it  scale  the  sky. 

Musette,  who  had  scarcely  forgotten  withal 

One  beautiful  dawn  of  the  new  year's  best, 
Returned  at  the  end  of  the  carnival, 

A  flown  bird  to  a  forsaken  nest. 
Ah  faithless  and  fair !  I  embrace  her  yet, 

With  no  heart-beat,  and  with  never  a  sigh ; 
And  Musette,  no  longer  the  old  Musette, 

Declares  that  I  am  no  longer  I. 

Farewell,  my  clear  that  was  once  so  dear, 

Dead  with  the  death  of  our  latest  love ; 
Our  youth  is  laid  in  its  sepulchre, 

The  calendar  stands  for  a  stone  above. 
Tis  only  in  searching  the  dust  of  the  days, 

The  ashes  of  all  old  memories, 
That  we  find  the  key  of  the  woodland  ways 

That  lead  to  the  place  of  our  paradise. 


39 


BALLADS. 


THE  THREE  CAPTAINS. 

ALL  beneath  the  white-rose  tree 
Walks  a  lady  fair  to  see, 
She  is  as  white  as  the  snows, 
She  is  as  fair  as  the  day : 

From  her  father's  garden  close 
Three  knights  have  ta'en  her  away. 

He  has  ta'en  her  by  the  hand, 
The  youngest  of  the  three  — 

'  Mount  and  ride,  my  bonnie  bride, 
On  my  white  horse  with  me.' 

And  ever  they  rode,  and  better  rode, 
Till  they  come  to  Senlis  town, 

The  hostess  she  looked  hard  at  them 
As  they  were  lighting  down. 

'  And  are  ye  here  by  force,'  she  said, 

1  Or  are  ye  here  for  play  ? ' 
'  From  out  my  father's  garden  close 

Three  knights  me  stole  away. 

1  And  fain  would  I  win  back,'  she  said, 

'  The  weary  way  I  come ; 
And  fain  would  see  my  father  dear, 

And  fain  go  maiden  home.' 


40 


'  Oh,  weep  not,  lady  fair,'  said  she, 
'  You  shall  win  back,'  she  said, 

'  For  you  shall  take  this  draught  from  me 
Will  make  you  lie  for  dead.' 

'  Come  in  and  sup,  fair  lady,'  they  said, 
'  Come  busk  ye  and  be  bright ; 

It  is  with  three  bold  captains 
That  ye  must  be  this  night.' 

When  they  had  eaten  well  and  drunk, 

She  fell  down  like  one  slain : 
'  Now,  out  and  alas  I  for  my  bonny  may 

Shall  live  no  more  again." 

'  Within  her  father's  garden  stead 

There  are  three  white  lilies ; 
With  her  body  to  the  lily  bed, 

With  her  soul  to  Paradise.' 

They  bore  her  to  her  father's  house, 

They  bore  her  all  the  three, 
They  laid  her  in  her  father's  close, 

Beneath  the  white-rose  tree. 

She  had  not  lain  a  day,  a  day, 

A  day  but  barely  three, 
When  the  may  awakes,  '  Oh,  open,  father, 

Oh,  open  the  door  for  me. 

'  'Tis  I  have  lain  for  dead,  father, 
Have  lain  the  long  days  three, 

That  I  might  maiden  come  again 
To  my  mother  and  to  thee.' 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  DEATH. 

4  rT"'HE  dance  is  on  the  Bridge  of  Death 
1       And  who  will  dance  with  me  ? ' 

'  There's  never  a  man  of  living  men 
Will  dare  to  dance  with  thee.' 

Now  Margaret's  gone  within  her  bower 

Put  ashes  in  her  hair, 
And  sackcloth  on  her  bonny  breast, 

And  on  her  shoulders  bare. 

There  came  a  knock  to  her  bower  door, 

And  blithe  she  let  him  in ; 
It  was  her  brother  from  the  wars, 

The  dearest  of  her  kin. 

1  Set  gold  within  your  hair,  Margaret, 

Set  gold  within  your  hair, 
And  gold  upon  your  girdle  band, 

And  on  your  breast  so  fair. 

'  For  we  are  bidden  to  dance  to-night, 

We  may  not  bide  away ; 
This  one  good  night,  this  one  fair  night, 

Before  the  red  new  day.' 

'  Nay,  no  gold  for  my  head  brother, 

Nay,  no  gold  for  my  hair; 
It  is  the  ashes  and  dust  of  earth 

That  you  and  I  must  wear. 


'  No  gold  work  for  my  girdle  band, 

No  gold  work  on  my  feet ; 
But  ashes  of  the  fire,  my  love, 

But  dust  that  the  serpents  eat.' 

They  danced  across  the  Bridge  of  Death 

Above  the  black  water, 
And  the  marriage-bell  was  tolled  in  hell 

For  the  souls  of  him  and  her. 


43 


LE  PERE  SEVERE. 

KING   LOUIS'  DAUGHTER. 

BALLAD  OF  THE  ISLE  OF  FRANCE. 


K 


ING  Louis  on  his  bridge  is  he, 

He  holds  his  daughter  on  his  knee. 


She  asks  a  husband  at  his  hand 
That  is  not  worth  a  rood  of  land. 

'  Give  up  your  lover  speedily, 

Or  you  within  the  tower  must  lie.' 

'Although  I  must  the  prison  dree, 
I  will  not  change  my  love  for  thee. 

'  I  will  not  change  my  lover  fair 
Not  for  the  mother  that  me  bare. 

'  I  will  not  change  my  true  lover 
For  friends,  or  for  my  father  dear.' 

'  Now  where  are  all  my  pages  keen, 
And  where  are  all  my  serving  men  ? 

'  My  daughter  must  lie  in  the  tower  alway, 
Where  she  shall  never  see  the  day.' 

Seven  long  years  are  past  and  gone 
And  there  has  seen  her  never  one. 


44 


At  ending  of  the  seventh  year 
Her  father  goes  to  visit  her. 

'  My  child,  my  child,  how  may  you  be  ? ' 
'  O  father,  it  fares  ill  with  me. 

'  My  feet  are  wasted  in  the  mould, 
The  worms  they  gnaw  my  side  so  cold.' 

'  My  child,  change  your  love  speedily 
Or  you  must  still  in  prison  lie.' 

'  'Tis  better  far  the  cold  to  dree 
Than  give  my  true  love  up  for  thee.' 


45 


THE  MILK  WHITE  DOE. 

T  T  was  a  mother  and  a  maid 
1     That  walked  the  woods  among, 
And  still  the  maid  went  slow  and  sad, 
And  still  the  mother  sung. 

1  What  ails  you,  daughter  Margaret  ? 

Why  go  you  pale  and  wan  ? 
Is  it  for  a  cast  of  bitter  love, 

Or  for  a  false  leman  ? ' 

1  It  is  not  for  a  false  lover 

That  I  go  sad  to  see ; 
But  it  is  for  a  weary  life 

Beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 

1  For  ever  in  the  good  daylight 

A  maiden  may  I  go, 
But  always  on  the  ninth  midnight 

I  change  to  a  milk  white  doe. 

'  They  hunt  me  through  the  green  forest 
With  hounds  and  hunting  men; 

And  ever  it  is  my  fair  brother 
That  is  so  fierce  and  keen.' 

'  Good-morrow,  mother.'  '  Good-morrow,  son ; 

Where  are  your  hounds  so  good  ? ' 
'  Oh,  they  are  hunting  a  white  doe 

Within  the  glad  greenwood. 


46 


'And  three  times  have  they  hunted  her, 

And  thrice  she's  won  away; 
The  fourth  time  that  they  follow  her 

That  white  doe  they  shall  slay.' 

Then  out  and  spoke  the  forester, 

As  he  came  from  the  wood, 
4  Now  never  saw  I  maid's  gold  hair 

Among  the  wild  deer's  blood. 

'And  I  have  hunted  the  wild  deer 

In  east  lands  and  in  west; 
And  never  saw  I  white  doe  yet 

That  had  a  maiden's  breast.' 

Then  up  and  spake  her  fair  brother, 
Between  the  wine  and  bread, 

'  Behold  I  had  but  one  sister, 
And  I  have  been  her  dead.' 

'  But  ye  must  bury  my  sweet  sister 

With  a  stone  at  her  feet  and  her  head, 

And  ye  must  cover  her  fair  body 
With  the  white  roses  and  red.' 

And  I  must  out  to  the  greenwood, 
The  roof  shall  never  shelter  me ; 

And  I  shall  lie  for  seven  long  years 
On  the  grass  below  the  hawthorn  tree. 


47 


A  LADY  OF  HIGH  DEGREE. 

I  BE  PAKELD  MOST  OF  PRISE, 
I  RIDE  AFTER  THE  WILD  FEE. 

WILL  ye  that  I  should  sing 
Of  the  love  of  a  goodly  thing, 
Was  no  vilein's  may  ? 
'Tis  sung  of  a  knight  so  free, 
Under  the  olive  tree, 
Singing  this  lay. 

Her  weed  was  of  samite  fine, 
Her  mantel  of  white  ermine, 

Green  silk  her  hose ; 
Her  shoon  with  silver  gay, 
Her  sandals  flowers  of  May, 

Laced  small  and  close. 

Her  belt  was  of  fresh  spring  buds, 
Set  with  gold  clasps  and  studs, 

Fine  linen  her  shift ; 
Her  purse  it  was  of  love, 
Her  chain  was  the  flower  thereof, 

And  Love's  gift. 

Upon  a  mule  she  rode, 
The  selle  was  of  brent  gold, 

The  bits  of  silver  made ; 
Three  red  rose  trees  that  were 
That  overshadowed  her, 

For  a  sun  shade. 


48 


She  riding  on  a  day, 
Knights  met  her  by  the  way, 

They  did  her  grace ; 
'  Fair  lady,  whence  be  ye  ? ' 
'  France  it  is  my  countrie, 

I  come  of  a  high  race. 

1  My  sire  is  the  nightingale, 
That  sings,  making  his  wail, 

In  the  wild  wood,  clear; 
The  mermaid  is  mother  to  me, 
That  sings  in  the  salt  sea, 

In  the  ocean  mere.' 

1  Ye  come  of  a  right  good  race, 
And  are  born  of  a  high  place, 

And  of  high  degree ; 
Would  to  God  that  ye  were 
Given  unto  me,  being  fair, 

My  lady  and  love  to  be.' 


49 


LOST  FOR  A  ROSE'S  SAKE. 

I  LAVED  my  hands 
By  the  water  side ; 
With  the  willow  leaves 
My  hands  I  dried. 

The  nightingale  sung 

On  the  bough  of  the  tree ; 

Sing,  sweet  nightingale, 
It  is  well  with  thee. 

Thou  hast  heart's  delight, 
I  have  sad  heart's  sorrow 

For  a  false  false  maid 
That  will  wed  to-morrow. 

'Tis  all  for  a  rose, 

That  I  gave  her  not, 
And  I  would  that  it  grew 

In  the  garden  plot. 

And  I  would  the  rose-tree 

Were  still  to  set, 
That  my  love  Marie 

Might  love  me  yet. 


BALLADS  OF  MODERN  GREECE. 

THE  BRIGAND'S  GRAVE. 

THE  moon  came  up  above  the  hill, 
The  sun  went  down  the  sea; 
Go,  maids,  and  fetch  the  well-water, 
But,  lad,  come  here  to  me. 

Gird  on  my  jack  and  my  old  sword, 

For  I  have  never  a  son ; 
And  you  must  be  the  chief  of  all 

When  I  am  dead  and  gone. 

But  you  must  take  my  old  broad  sword, 
And  cut  the  green  bough  of  the  tree, 

And  strew  the  green  boughs  on  the  ground 
To  make  a  soft  death  bed  for  me. 

And  you  must  bring  the  holy  priest 

That  I  may  sained  be ; 
For  I  have  lived  a  roving  life 

Fifty  years  under  the  greenwood  tree. 

And  you  shall  make  a  grave  for  me, 

And  make  it  deep  and  wide ; 
That  I  may  turn  about  and  dream 

With  my  old  gun  by  my  side. 

And  leave  a  window  to  the  east, 

And  the  swallows  will  bring  the  spring; 

And  all  the  merry  month  of  May 
The  nightingales  will  sing. 


THE  SUDDEN  BRIDAL. 

IT  was  a  maid  lay  sick  of  love, 
All  for  a  leman  fair ; 
And  it  was  three  of  her  bower-maidens 
That  came  to  comfort  her. 

The  first  she  bore  a  blossomed  branch, 

The  second  an  apple  brown, 
The  third  she  had  a  silk  kerchief, 

And  still  her  tears  ran  down. 

The  first  she  mocked,  the  second  she  laugh ed- 

'  We  have  loved  lemans  fair, 
We  made  our  hearts  like  the  iron  stone 

Had  little  teen  or  care.' 

1  If  ye  have  loved  'twas  a  false  false  love, 

And  an  ill  leman  was  he ; 
But  her  true  love  had  angel's  eyes, 

And  as  fair  was  his  sweet  body. 

'  And  I  will  gird  my  green  kirtle, 

And  braid  my  yellow  hair, 
And  I  will  over  the  high  hills 

And  bring  her  love  to  her.' 

1  Nay,  if  you  braid  your  yellow  hair, 

You'll  twine  my  love  from  me.' 
'  Now  nay,  now  nay,  my  lady  good, 

That  ever  this  should  be ! ' 


'  When  you  have  crossed  the  western  hills 

My  true  love  you  shall  meet, 
With  a  green  flag  blowing  over  him, 

And  green  grass  at  his  feet.' 

She  has  crossed  over  the  high  hills, 

And  the  low  hills  between, 
And  she  has  found  the  may's  leman 

Beneath  a  flag  of  green. 

'Twas  four  and  twenty  ladies  fair 

Were  sitting  on  the  grass ; 
But  he  has  turned  and  looked  on  her, 

And  will  not  let  her  pass. 

'You've  maidens  here,  and  maidens  there, 
And  loves  through  all  the  land ; 

But  what  have  you  made  of  the  lady  fair 
You  gave  the  rose-garland?' 

She  was  so  harsh  and  cold  of  love, 

To  me  gave  little  grace ; 
She  wept  if  I  but  touched  her  hand, 

Or  kissed  her  bonny  face. 

'  Yea,  crows  shall  build  in  the  eagle's  nest, 
The  hawk  the  dove  shall  wed, 

Before  my  old  true  love  and  I 
Meet  in  one  wedding  bed.' 

When  she  had  heard  his  bitter  rede 

That  was  his  old  true  love, 
She  sat  and  wept  within  her  bower, 

And  moaned  even  as  a  dove. 


53 


She  rose  up  from  her  window  seat, 

And  she  looked  out  to  see ; 
Her  love  came  riding  up  the  street 

With  a  goodly  company. 

He  was  clad  on  with  Venice  gold, 

Wrought  upon  cramoisie, 
His  yellow  hair  shone  like  the  sun 

About  his  fair  body. 

'  Now  shall  I  call  him  blossomed  branch 

That  has  ill  knots  therein  ? 
Or  shall  I  call  him  basil  plant, 

That  comes  of  an  evil  kin  ? 

'  Oh,  I  shall  give  him  goodly  names, 

My  sword  of  damask  fine ; 
My  silver  flower,  my  bright-winged  bird, 

Where  go  you,  lover  mine  ? ' 

'  I  go  to  marry  my  new  bride, 
That  I  bring  o'er  the  down ; 

And  you  shall  be  her  bridal  maid, 
And  hold  her  bridal  crown.' 

'  When  you  come  to  the  bride  chamber 

Where  your  fair  maiden  is, 
You'll  tell  her  I  was  fair  of  face, 

But  never  tell  her  this, 

'  That  still  my  lips  were  lips  of  love, 

My  kiss  love's  spring-water, 
That  my  love  was  a  running  spring, 

My  breast  a  garden  fair. 


54 


'  And  you  have  kissed  the  lips  of  love 

And  drained  the  well-water, 
And  you  have  spoiled  the  running  spring, 

And  robbed  the  fruits  so  fair.' 

1  Now  he  that  will  may  scatter  nuts, 

And  he  may  wed  that  will; 
But  she  that  was  my  old  true  love 

Shall  be  my  true  love  still.' 


55 


GREEK  FOLK  SONGS. 


IANNOULA. 

ALL  the  maidens  were  merry  and  wed 
All  to  lovers  so  fair  to  see ; 
The  lover  I  took  to  my  bridal  bed 
He  is  not  long  for  love  and  me. 

I  spoke  to  him  and  he  nothing  said, 
I  gave  him  bread  of  the  wheat  so  fine, 

He  did  not  eat  of  the  bridal  bread, 
He  did  not  drink  of  the  bridal  wine. 

I  made  him  a  bed  was  soft  and  deep, 
I  made  him  a  bed  to  sleep  with  me ; 

'  Look  on  me  once  before  you  sleep, 

And  look  on  the  flower  of  my  fair  body. 

'  Flowers  of  April,  and  fresh  May-dew, 
Dew  of  April  and  buds  of  May ; 

Two  white  blossoms  that  bud  for  you, 
Buds  that  blossom  before  the  day.' 


THE  TELL-TALES. 


ALL  in  the  mirk  midnight  when  I  was  beside  you, 
Who  has  seen,  who  has  heard,  what  was  said, 

what  was  done  ? 
'Twas  the  night  and  the  light  of  the  stars  that  espied 

you, 
The  fall  of  the  moon,  and  the  dawning  begun. 

'Tis  a  swift  star  has  fallen,  a  star  that  discovers 
To  the  sea  what  the  green  sea  has  told  to  the  oars, 

And  the  oars  to  the  sailors,  and  they  of  us  lovers 
Go  singing  this  song  at  their  mistress's  doors. 


57 


AVE 


TWILIGHT  ON  TWEED. 

THREE  crests  against  the  saffron  sky, 
Beyond  the  purple  plane, 
The  dear  remembered  melody 
Of  Tweed  once  more  again. 

Wan  water  from  the  border  hills, 
Dear  voice  from  the  old  years, 

Thy  distant  music  lulls  and  stills, 
And  moves  to  quiet  tears. 

Like  a  loved  ghost  thy  fabled  flood 
Fleets  through  the  dusky  land ; 

Where  Scott,  come  home  to  die,  has  stood, 
My  feet  returning  stand. 

A  mist  of  memory  broods  and  floats, 

The  border  waters  flow ; 
The  air  is  full  of  ballad  notes, 

Borne  out  of  long  ago. 

Old  songs  that  sung  themselves  to  me, 
Sweet  through  a  boy's  day  dream, 

While  trout  below  the  blossom'd  tree 
Plashed  in  the  golden  stream. 

Twilight,  and  Tweed,  and  Eildon  Hill, 

Fair  and  thrice  fair  you  be ; 
You  tell  me  that  the  voice  is  still 

That  should  have  welcomed  me. 


6l 


ONE  FLOWER. 


"  Up  there  shot  a  lily  red, 

With  a  patch  of  earth  from  the  land  of  the  dead, 

For  she  was  strong  in  the  land  of  the  dead." 

WHEN  autumn  suns  are  soft,  and  sea  winds  moan, 
And  golden  fruits  make  sweet  the  golden  air, 

In  gardens  where  the  apple  blossoms  were, 
In  these  old  springs  before  I  walked  alone; 
I  pass  among  the  pathways  overgrown, 

Of  all  the  former  flowers  that  kissed  your  feet 

Remains  a  poppy,  pallid  from  the  heat, 
A  wild  poppy  that  the  wild  winds  have  sown. 
Alas  t  the  rose  forgets  your  hands  of  rose ; 

The  lilies  slumber  in  the  lily  bed; 
'Tis  only  poppies  in  the  dreamy  close, 

The  changeless,  windless  garden  of  the  dead, 
You  tend,  with  buds  soft  as  your  kiss  that  lies 
In  over  happy  dreams,  upon  mine  eyes. 


62 


METEMPSYCHOSIS. 

I  SHALL  not  see  thee,  nay,  but  I  shall  know 
Perchance,  thy  grey  eyes  in  another's  eyes, 
Shall  guess  thy  curls  in  gracious  locks  that  flow 
On  purest  brows,  yea,  and  the  swift  surmise 
Shall  follow,  and  track,  and  find  thee  in  disguise 
Of  all  sad  things,  and  fair,  where  sunsets  glow, 
When  through  the  scent  of  heather,  faint  and  low, 
The  weak  wind  whispers  to  the  day  that  dies. 

From  all  sweet  art,  and  out  of  all  '  old  rhyme,' 
Thine  eyes  and  lips  are  light  and  song  to  me ; 

The  shadows  of  the  beauty  of  all  time, 
Carven  and  sung,  are  only  shapes  of  thee ; 

Alas,  the  shadowy  shapes !  ah,  sweet  my  dear, 

Shall  life  or  death  bring  all  thy  being  near? 


LOST  IN  HADES. 

I  DREAMED  that  somewhere  in  the  shadowy  place, 
Grief  of  farewell  unspoken  was  forgot 
In  welcome,  and  regret  remembered  not ; 
And  hopeless  prayer  accomplished  turned  to  praise 
On  lips  that  had  been  songless  many  days  ? 
Hope  had  no  more  to  hope  for,  and  desire 
And  dread  were  overpast,  in  white  attire 
New  born  we  walked  among  the  new  world's  ways. 

Then  from  the  press  of  shades  a  spirit  threw 
Towards  me  such  apples  as  these  gardens  bear; 

And  turning,  I  was  'ware  of  her,  and  knew 
And  followed  her  fleet  voice  and  flying  hair, — 

Followed,  and  found  her  not,  and  seeking  you 
I  found  you  never,  dearest,  anywhere. 


A  STAR  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

THE  perfect  piteous  beauty  of  thy  face, 
Is  like  a  star  the  dawning  drives  away ; 
Mine  eyes  may  never  see  in  the  bright  day 
Thy  pallid  halo,  thy  supernal  grace : 
But  in  the  night  from  forth  the  silent  place 
Thou  comest,  dim  in  dreams,  as  doth  a  stray 
Star  of  the  starry  flock  that  in  the  grey 
Is  seen,  and  lost,  and  seen  a  moment's  space. 

And  as  the  earth  at  night  turns  to  a  star, 
Loved  long  ago,  and  dearer  than  the  sun, 

So  in  the  spiritual  place  afar, 
At  night  our  souls  are  mingled  and  made  one, 

And  wait  till  one  night  fall,  and  one  dawn  rise, 

That  brings  no  noon  too  splendid  for  your  eyes. 


A  SUNSET  ON  YARROW. 

THE  wind  and  the  day  had  lived  together, 
They  died  together,  and  far  away 
Spoke  farewell  in  the  sultry  weather, 
Out  of  the  sunset,  over  the  heather, 
The  dying  wind  and  the  dying  day. 

Far  in  the  south,  the  summer  levin 
Flushed,  a  flame  in  the  grey  soft  air: 

We  seemed  to  look  on  the  hills  of  heaven; 

You  saw  within,  but  to  me  'twas  given 
To  see  your  face  as  an  angel's,  there. 

Never  again,  ah  surely  never 

Shall  we  wait  and  watch,  where  of  old  we  stood, 
The  low  good-night  of  the  hill  and  the  river, 
The  faint  light  fade,  and  the  wan  stars  quiver, 

Twain  grown  one  in  the  solitude. 


66 


HESPEROTHEN 


By  the  example  of  certain  Grecian 
mariners,  who,  being  safely  returned 
from  the  war  about  Troy,  leave  yet 
again  their  old  lands  and  gods,  seeking 
they  know  not  what,  and  choosing  nei- 
ther to  abide  in  the  fair  Phxacian  island, 
nor  to  dwell  and  die  with  the  Sirens,  at 
length  end  miserably  in  a  desert  country 
by  the  sea,  is  set  forth  the  "Vanity  of 
Melancholy.  And  by  the  land  of  Phseacia 
is  to  be  understood  the  place  of  Art  and 
of  fair  Pleasures;  and  by  Circe's  Isle, 
the  places  of  bodily  delights,  whereof 
men,  falling  aweary,  attain  to  Eld,  and 
to  the  darkness  of  that  age.  Which 
thing  Master  Franfoys  Rabelais  feigned, 
under  the  similitude  of  the  Isle  of  the 
Macweones. 


THE  SEEKERS  FOR  PH^ACIA. 


THERE  is  a  land  in  the  remotest  day, 
Where  the  soft  night  is  born,  and  sunset  dies ; 
The  eastern  shores  see  faint  tides  fade  away, 
That  wash  the  lands  where  laughter,  tears  and 

sighs, 

Make  life,  —  the  lands  beneath  the  blue  of  common 
skies. 

But  in  the  west  is  a  mysterious  sea, 

(What  sails  have  seen  it,  or  what  shipmen  known  ? ) 
With  coasts  enchanted  where  the  Sirens  be, 

With  islands  where  a  Goddess  walks  alone, 
And  in  the  cedar  trees  the  magic  winds  make  moan. 

Eastward  the  human  cares  of  house  and  home, 
Cities,  and  ships,  and  unknown  Gods,  and  loves ; 

Westward,  strange  maidens  fairer  than  the  foam, 
And  lawless  lives  of  men,  and  haunted  groves, 
Wherein  a  God  may  dwell,  and  where  the  Dryad  roves. 

The  Gods  are  careless  of  the  days  and  death 
Of  toilsome  men,  beyond  the  western  seas ; 

The  Gods  are  heedless  of  their  painful  breath, 

And  love  them  not,  for  they  are  not  as  these ; 
But  in  the  golden  west  they  live  and  lie  at  ease. 


Yet  the  Phaeacians  well  they  love,  who  live 

At  the  light's  limit,  passing  careless  hours, 
Most  like  the  Gods ;  and  they  have  gifts  to  give, 
Even  wine,  and  fountains  musical,  and  flowers, 
And  song,  and  if  they  will,  swift  ships,  and  magic 
powers. 

It  b  a  quiet  midland ;  in  the  cool 

Of  twilight  comes  the  God,  though  no  man  prayed, 
To  watch  the  maids  and  young  men  beautiful 

Dance,  and  they  see  him,  and  are  not  afraid, 
For  they  are  near  of  kin  to  Gods,  and  undismayed. 

Ah,  would  the  bright  red  prows  might  bring  us  nigh 
The  dreamy  isles  that  the  Immortals  keep ! 

But  with  a  mist  they  hide  them  wondrously, 

And  far  the  path  and  dim  to  where  they  sleep,  — 
The  loved,  the  shadowy  lands  along  the  shadowy  deep. 


70 


A  SONG  OF  PH^EACIA. 


THE  languid  sunset,  mother  of  roses, 
Lingers,  a  light  on  the  magic  seas, 
The  wide  fire  flames,  as  a  flower  uncloses, 
Heavy  with  odour,  and  loose  to  the  breeze. 

The  red  rose  clouds,  without  law  or  leader, 
Gather  and  float  in  the  airy  plane ; 

The  nightingale  sings  to  the  dewy  cedar, 
The  cedar  scatters  his  scent  to  the  main. 

The  strange  flowers'  perfume  turns  to  singing, 

Heard  afar  over  moonlit  seas; 
The  Siren's  song,  grown  faint  in  winging, 

Falls  in  scent  on  the  cedar  trees. 

As  waifs  blown  out  of  the  sunset,  flying, 
Purple,  and  rosy,  and  grey,  the  birds 

Brighten  the  air  with  their  wings ;  their  crying 
Wakens  a  moment  the  weary  herds. 

Butterflies  flit  from  the  fairy  garden, 
Living  blossoms  of  flying  flowers ; 

Never  the  nights  with  winter  harden, 

Nor  moons  wax  keen  in  this  land  of  ours. 


Great  fruits,  fragrant,  green  and  golden, 
Gleam  in  the  green,  and  droop  and  fall ; 

Blossom,  and  bud,  and  flower  unfolden, 
Swing,  and  cling  to  the  garden  wall. 

Deep  in  the  woods  as  twilight  darkens, 
Glades  are  red  with  the  scented  fire  ; 

Far  in  the  dells  the  white  maid  hearkens, 
Song  and  sigh  of  the  heart's  desire. 

Ah,  and  as  moonlight  fades  in  morning, 
Maiden's  song  in  the  matin  grey, 

Faints  as  the  first  bird's  note,  a  warning, 
Wakes  and  wails  to  the  new-born  day. 

The  waking  song  and  the  dying  measure 
Meet,  and  the  waxing  and  waning  light 

Meet,  and  faint  with  the  hours  of  pleasure, 
The  rose  of  the  sea  and  the  sky  is  white. 


THE  DEPARTURE  FROM  PH^EACIA. 


THE  PHMEACIANS. 

WHY  from  the  dreamy  meadows, 
More  fair  than  any  dream, 
Why  will  you  seek  the  shadows 
Beyond  the  ocean  stream  ? 

Through  straits  of  storm  and  peril, 
Through  firths  unsailed  before, 

Why  make  you  for  the  sterile, 
The  dark  Kimmerian  shore  ? 

There  no  bright  streams  are  flowing, 
There  day  and  night  are  one, 

No  harvest  time,  no  sowing, 
No  sight  of  any  sun ; 

No  sound  of  song  or  tabor, 

No  dance  shall  greet  you  there ; 

No  noise  of  mortal  labour, 
Breaks  on  the  blind  chill  air. 

Are  ours  not  happy  places, 

Where  Gods  with  mortals  trod  ? 

Saw  not  our  sires  the  faces 
Of  many  a  present  God  ? 

73 


THE  SEEKERS. 

Nay,  now  no  God  comes  hither, 
In  shape  that  men  may  see ; 

They  fare  we  know  not  whither, 
We  know  not  what  they  be. 

Yea,  though  the  sunset  lingers 

Far  in  your  fairy  glades, 
Though  yours  the  sweetest  singers, 

Though  yours  the  kindest  maids. 

Yet  here  be  the  true  shadows, 
Here  in  the  doubtful  light ; 

Amid  the  dreamy  meadows 
No  shadow  haunts  the  night. 

We  seek  a  city  splendid, 
With  light  beyond  the  sun ; 

Or  lands  where  dreams  are  ended, 
And  works  and  days  are  done. 


74 


A  BALLAD  OF  DEPARTURE." 


FAIR  white  bird,  what  song  art  thou  singing 
In  wintry  weather  of  lands  o'er  sea  ? 
Dear  white  bird,  what  way  art  thou  winging, 
Where  no  grass  grows,  and  no  green  tree  ? 

I  looked  at  the  far  off  fields  and  grey, 
There  grew  no  tree  but  the  cypress  tree, 

That  bears  sad  fruits  with  the  flowers  of  May, 
And  whoso  looks  on  it,  woe  is  he. 

And  whoso  eats  of  the  fruit  thereof 
Has  no  more  sorrow  and  no  more  love ; 
And  who  sets  the  same  in  his  garden  stead, 
In  a  little  space  he  is  waste  and  dead. 


i  From  the  Romaic. 


75 


THEY  HEAR  THE  SIRENS  FOR  THE 
SECOND  TIME. 

'"y'HE  weary  sails  a  moment  slept, 

1       The  oars  were  silent  for  a  space, 
As  past  Hesperian  shores  we  swept, 

That  were  as  a  remembered  face 
Seen  after  lapse  of  hopeless  years, 

In  Hades,  when  the  shadows  meet, 
Dim  through  the  mist  of  many  tears, 

And  strange,  and  though  a  shadow,  sweet. 

So  seemed  the  half-remembered  shore, 

That  slumbered,  mirrored  in  the  blue, 
With  havens  where  we  touched  of  yore, 

And  ports  that  over  well  we  knew. 
Then  broke  the  calm  before  a  breeze 

That  sought  the  secret  of  the  west; 
And  listless  all  we  swept  the  seas 

Towards  the  Islands  of  the  Blest. 

Beside  a  golden  sanded  bay 

We  saw  the  Sirens,  very  fair 
The  flowery  hill  whereon  they  lay, 

The  flowers  set  upon  their  hair. 
Their  old  sweet  song  came  down  the  wind, 

Remembered  music  waxing  strong, 
Ah  now  no  need  of  cords  to  bind, 

No  need  had  we  of  Orphic  song. 


76 


It  once  had  seemed  a  little  thing, 

To  lay  our  lives  down  at  their  feet, 
That  dying  we  might  hear  them  sing, 

And  dying  see  their  faces  sweet; 
But  now,  we  glanced,  and  passing  by, 

No  care  had  we  to  tarry  long ; 
Faint  hope,  and  rest,  and  memory 

Were  more  than  any  Siren's  song. 


77 


CIRCE'S  ISLE  REVISITED. 

AH,  Circe,  Circe  I  in  the  wood  we  cried; 
Ah,  Circe,  Circe  I  but  no  voice  replied ; 
No  voice  from  bowers  o'ergrown  and  ruinous 
As  fallen  rocks  upon  the  mountain  side. 

There  was  no  sound  of  singing  in  the  air ; 
Failed  or  fled  the  maidens  that  were  fair, 

No  more  for  sorrow  or  joy  were  seen  of  us, 
No  light  of  laughing  eyes,  or  floating  hair. 

The  perfume,  and  the  music,  and  the  flame 
Had  passed  away ;  the  memory  of  shame 
Alone  abode,  and  stings  of  faint  desire, 
And  pulses  of  vague  quiet  went  and  came. 

Ah,  Circe !  in  thy  sad  changed  fairy  place, 

Our  dead  Youth  came  and  looked  on  us  a  space, 

With  drooping  wings,  and  eyes  of  faded  fire, 
And  wasted  hair  about  a  weary  face. 

Why  had  we  ever  sought  the  magic  Isle 
That  seemed  so  happy  in  the  days  erewhile 
Why  did  we  ever  leave  it,  where  we  met 
A  world  of  happy  wonders  in  one  smile  ? 

Back  to  the  westward  and  the  waning  light 
We  turned,  we  fled ;  the  solitude  of  night 

Was  better  than  the  infinite  regret, 
In  fallen  places  of  our  dead  delight. 


THE  LIMIT  OF  LANDS. 


BETWEEN  the  circling  ocean  sea 
And  the  poplars  of  Persephone 
There  lies  a  strip  of  barren  sand, 
Flecked  with  the  sea's  last  spray,  and  strown 
With  waste  leaves  of  the  poplars,  blown 
From  gardens  of  the  shadow  land. 

With  altars  of  old  sacrifice 

The  shore  is  set,  in  mournful  wise 

The  mists  upon  the  ocean  brood; 
Between  the  water  and  the  air 
The  clouds  are  born  that  float  and  fare 

Between  the  water  and  the  wood. 

Upon  the  grey  sea  never  sail 

Of  mortals  passed  within  our  hail, 

Where  the  last  weak  waves  faint  and  flow ; 
We  heard  within  the  poplar  pale 
The  murmur  of  a  doubtful  wail 

Of  voices  loved  so  long  ago. 

We  scarce  had  care  to  die  or  live, 
We  had  no  honey  cake  to  give, 

No  wine  of  sacrifice  to  shed ; 
There  lies  no  new  path  over  sea, 
And  now  we  know  how  faint  they  be, 

The  feasts  and  voices  of  the  Dead. 


79 


Ah,  flowers  and  dance !  ah,  sun  and  snow ! 
Glad  life,  sad  life  we  did  forego 

To  dream  of  quietness  and  rest ; 
Ah,  would  the  fleet  sweet  roses  here 
Poured  light  and  perfume  through  the  drear 

Pale  year,  and  wan  land  of  the  west. 

Sad  youth,  that  let  the  spring  go  by 
Because  the  spring  is  swift  to  fly, 

Sad  youth,  that  feared  to  mourn  or  love, 
Behold  how  sadder  far  is  this, 
To  know  that  rest  is  nowise  bliss, 

And  darkness  is  the  end  thereof. 


80 


VERSES  ON  PICTURES 


COLINETTE. 

FOR  A  SKETCH  BY  MR.  G.  LESLIE,  A.  R.  A. 

FRANCE  your  country,  as  we  know ; 
Room  enough  for  guessing  yet, 
What  lips  now  or  long  ago, 

Kissed  and  named  you  —  Colinette. 
In  what  fields  from  sea  to  sea, 

By  what  stream  your  home  was  set, 
Loire  or  Seine  was  glad  of  thee, 
Marne  or  Rhone,  O  Colinette  ? 

Did  you  stand  with  '  maidens  ten, 

Fairer  maids  were  never  seen,' 
When  the  young  king  and  his  men 

Passed  among  the  orchards  green  ? 
Nay,  old  ballads  have  a  note 

Mournful,  we  would  fain  forget ; 
No  such  sad  old  air  should  float 

Round  your  young  brows,  Colinette. 

Say,  did  Ronsard  sing  to  you, 

Shepherdess,  to  lull  his  pain, 
When  the  court  went  wandering  through 

Rose  pleasances  of  Touraine  ? 
Ronsard  and  his  famous  Rose 

Long  are  dust  the  breezes  fret ; 
You,  within  the  garden  close, 

You  are  blooming,  Colinette. 


Have  I  seen  you  proud  and  gay, 

With  a  patched  and  perfumed  beau, 
Dancing  through  the  summer  day, 

Misty  summer  of  Watteau  ? 
Nay,  so  sweet  a  maid  as  you 

Never  walked  a  minuet 
With  the  splendid  courtly  crew ; 

Nay,  forgive  me,  Colinette. 

Not  from  Greuze's  canvasses 

Do  you  cast  a  glance,  a  smile; 
You  are  not  as  one  of  these, 

Yours  is  beauty  without  guile. 
Round  your  maiden  brows  and  hair 

Maidenhood  and  Childhood  met 
Crown  and  kiss  you,  sweet  and  fair, 

New  art's  blossom,  Colinette. 


84 


A  SUNSET  OF  WATTEAU. 

Lur. 

THE  silk  sail  fills,  the  soft  winds  wake, 
Arise  and  tempt  the  seas ; 
Our  ocean  is  the  Palace  lake, 
Our  waves  the  ripples  that  we  make 
Among  the  mirrored  trees. 

ELLE. 

Nay,  sweet  the  shore,  and  sweet  the  song, 

And  dear  the  languid  dream ; 
The  music  mingled  all  day  long 
With  paces  of  the  dancing  throng, 
And  murmur  of  the  stream. 

An  hour  ago,  an  hour  ago, 

We  rested  in  the  shade ; 
And  now,  why  should  we  seek  to  know 
What  way  the  wilful  waters  flow  ? 

There  is  no  fairer  glade. 

Lui. 

Nay,  pleasure  flits,  and  we  must  sail, 

And  seek  him  everywhere ; 
Perchance  in  sunset's  golden  pale 
He  listens  to  the  nightingale, 

Amid  the  perfumed  air. 


Come,  he  has  fled ;  you  are  not  you, 

And  I  no  more  am  I ; 
Delight  is  changeful  as  the  hue 
Of  heaven,  that  is  no  longer  blue 

In  yonder  sunset  sky. 

ELLE. 

Nay,  if  we  seek  we  shall  not  find, 

If  we  knock  none  openeth ; 
Nay,  see,  the  sunset  fades  behind 
The  mountains,  and  the  cold  night  wind 
Blows  from  the  house  of  Death. 


86 


A  NATIVITY  OF  SANDRO  BOTTICELLI. 

4  \  I  BROUGHT  in  the  troublous  times  of  Italy 
VV      By  Sandro  Botticelli,'  when  for  fear 
Of  that  last  judgment,  and  last  day  drawn  near 

To  end  all  labour  and  all  rivalry, 

He  worked  and  prayed  in  silence ;  this  is  she 
That  by  the  holy  cradle  sees  the  bier, 
And  in  spice  gifts  the  hyssop  on  the  spear, 

And  out  of  Bethlehem,  Gethsemane. 

Between  the  gold  sky  and  the  green  o'er  head, 
The  twelve  great  shining  angels,  garlanded, 

Marvel  upon  this  face,  wherein  combine 
The  mother's  love  that  shone  on  all  of  us, 
And  maiden  rapture  that  makes  luminous 

The  brows  of  Margaret  and  Catherine. 


SONGS  AND  SONNETS 


TWO  HOMES. 


TO  A  YOUNG  ENGLISH  LADY  IN  THE  HOSPITAL  OF  THE 
WOUNDED  AT  CARLSRUHB.      SEPT.  1870. 

WHAT  does  the  dim  gaze  of  the  dying  find 
To  waken  dream  or  memory,  seeing  you  ? 

In  your  sweet  eyes  what  other  eyes  are  blue? 
And  in  your  hair  what  gold  hair  on  the  wind 
Floats  of  the  days  gone  almost  out  of  mind  ? 
In  deep  green  valleys  of  the  Fatherland 

He  may  remember  girls  with  locks  like  thine ; 
May  dream  how,  where  the  waiting  angels  stand, 

Some  lost  love's  eyes  are  dim  before  they  shine 

With  welcome :  —  so  past  homes,  or  homes  to  be, 
He  sees  a  moment,  ere,  a  moment  blind, 

He  crosses  Death's  inhospitable  sea, 
And  with  brief  passage  of  those  barren  lands 
Comes  to  the  home  that  is  not  made  with  hands. 


SUMMER'S  ENDING. 

rT"'HE  flags  below  the  shadowy  fern 
1       Shine  like  spears  between  sun  and  sea, 
The  tide  and  the  summer  begin  to  turn, 
And  ah,  for  hearts,  for  hearts  that  yearn, 
For  fires  of  autumn  that  catch  and  burn, 

For  love  gone  out  between  thee  and  me. 

The  wind  is  up  and  the  weather  broken, 

Blue  seas,  blue  eyes  are  grieved  and  grey, 
Listen,  the  word  that  the  wind  has  spoken, 
Listen,  the  sound  of  the  sea,  —  a  token 
That  summer's  over,  and  troths  are  broken, — 
That  loves  depart  as  the  hours  decay. 

A  love  has  passed  to  the  loves  passed  over, 
A  month  has  fled  to  the  months  gone  by; 

And  none  may  follow,  and  none  recover 

July  and  June,  and  never  a  lover 

May  stay  the  wings  of  the  Loves  that  hover, 
As  fleet  as  the  light  in  a  sunset  sky. 


92 


NIGHTINGALE  WEATHER. 


'  Serai-je  nonnette,  oui  ou  non ? 

Serai-je  nonnette  ?  je  crois  que  non. 

Derriere  chez  mon  pere 

II  est  un  bois  taillis, 

Le  rossignol  y  chante 

Et  le  jour  et  le  nuit. 

II  chante  pour  les  tilles 

Qui  n'ont  pas  d'anii ; 

II  ne  chante  pas  pour  moi, 

J'en  ai  un,  Dieu  merci.1 — OLD  FRENCH. 


I'LL  never  be  a  nun,  I  trow, 
While  apple  bloom  is  white  as  snow, 
But  far  more  fair  to  see ; 
I'll  never  wear  nun's  black  and  white 
While  nightingales  make  sweet  the  night 
Within  the  apple  tree. 

Ah,  listen  I  'tis  the  nightingale, 
And  in  the  wood  he  makes  his  wail, 

Within  the  apple  tree ; 
He  singeth  of  the  sore  distress 
Of  many  ladies  loverless ; 

Thank  God,  no  song  for  me. 

For  when  the  broad  May  moon  is  low, 
A  gold  fruit  seen  where  blossoms  blow 
In  the  boughs  of  the  apple  tree, 


93 


A  step  I  know  is  at  the  gate ; 
Ah  love,  but  it  is  long  to  wait 

Until  night's  noon  bring  thee  I 

Between  lark's  song  and  nightingale's 
A  silent  space,  while  dawning  pales, 

The  bird's  leave  still  and  free 
For  words  and  kisses  musical, 
For  silence  and  for  sighs  that  fall 

In  the  dawn,  'twixt  him  and  me. 


94 


LOVE  AND  WISDOM. 

'  When  last  we  gathered  roses  in  the  garden, 
I  found  my  wits,  but  truly  you  lost  yours.' 

THE  BROKEN  HEART. 

JULY  and  June  brought  flowers  and  love 
To  you,  but  I  would  none  thereof, 
Whose  heart  kept  all  through  summer  time 
A  flower  of  frost  and  winter  rime. 
Yours  was  true  wisdom  —  was  it  not?  — 
Even  love;  but  I  had  clean  forgot, 
Till  seasons  of  the  falling  leaf, 
All  loves,  but  one  that  turned  to  grief. 
At  length  at  touch  of  autumn  tide, 
When  roses  fell,  and  summer  died, 
All  in  a  dawning  deep  with  dew, 
Love  flew  to  me,  love  fled  from  you. 
The  roses  drooped  their  weary  heads, 
I  spoke  among  the  garden  beds; 
You  would  not  hear,  you  could  not  know, 
Summer  and  love  seemed  long  ago, 
As  far,  as  faint,  as  dim  a  dream, 
As  to  the  dead  this  world  may  seem. 
Ah  sweet,  in  winter's  miseries, 
Perchance  you  may  remember  this, 
How  wisdom  was  not  justified 
In  summer  time  or  autumn-tide, 
Though  for  this  once  below  the  sun, 
Wisdom  and  love  were  made  at  one ; 
But  love  was  bitter-bought  enough, 
And  wisdom  light  of  wing  as  love. 


95 


GOOD-BYE. 


KISS  me,  and  say  good-bye ; 
Good-bye,  there  is  no  word  to  say  but  this, 
Nor  any  lips  left  for  my  lips  to  kiss, 
Nor  any  tears  to  shed,  when  these  tears  dry ; 
Kiss  me,  and  say,  good-bye. 

Farewell,  be  glad,  forget ; 

There  is  no  need  to  say  '  forget,'  I  know, 
For  youth  is  youth,  and  time  will  have  it  so, 

And  though  your  lips  are  pale,  and  your  eyes  wet, 

Farewell,  you  must  forget. 

You  shall  bring  home  your  sheaves, 

Many,  and  heavy,  and  with  blossoms  twined 
Of  memories  that  go  not  out  of  mind ; 

Let  this  one  sheaf  be  twined  with  poppy  leaves 

When  you  bring  home  your  sheaves. 

In  garnered  loves  of  thine, 

The  ripe  good  fruit  of  many  hearts  and  years, 
Somewhere  let  this  lie,  grey  and  salt  with  tears ; 

It  grew  too  near  the  sea  wind,  and  the  brine 

Of  life,  this  love  of  mine. 


96 


This  sheaf  was  spoiled  in  spring, 

And  over-long  was  green,  and  early  sere, 
And  never  gathered  gold  in  the  late  year 

From  autumn  suns,  and  moons  of  harvesting, 

But  failed  in  frosts  of  spring. 

Yet  was  it  thine  my  sweet, 

This  love,  though  weak  as  young  corn  withered, 
Whereof  no  man  may  gather  and  make  bread ; 

Thine,  though  it  never  knew  the  summer  heat ; 

Forget  not  quite,  my  sweet. 


97 


AN  OLD  PRAYER. 


i,  u  Bct<r£X«a,  5ict/«rep£s  eh  S 
*E\0fl  /cai  fldvaros,  rA  T"  6r*  &v6pd>iroiff 

ODYSSEY,  xiii.  59. 

MY  prayer  an  old  prayer  borroweth, 
Of  ancient  love  and  memory  — 
'  Do  thou  farewell,  till  Eld  and  Death, 
That  come  to  all  men,  come  to  thee.' 
Gently  as  winter's  early  breath, 
Scarce  felt,  what  time  the  swallows  flee, 
To  lands  whereof  no  man  knoweth 
Of  summer,  over  land  and  sea; 
So  with  thy  soul  may  summer  be, 
Even  as  the  ancient  singer  saith, 
4  Do  thou  farewell,  till  Eld  and  Death, 
That  come  to  all  men,  come  to  thee.' 


98 


LOVE'S  MIRACLE. 


WITH  other  helpless  folk  about  the  gate, 
The  gate  called  Beautiful,  with  weary  eyes 
That  take  no  pleasure  in  the  summer  skies, 
Nor  all  things  that  are  fairest,  does  she  wait  ; 
So  bleak  a  time,  so  sad  a  changeless  fate 
Makes  her  with  dull  experience  early  wise, 
And  in  the  dawning  and  in  the  sunset,  sighs 
That  all  hath  been,  and  shall  be,  desolate. 

Ah,  if  Love  come  not  soon,  and  bid  her  live, 
And  know  herself  the  fairest  of  fair  things, 

Ah,  if  he  have  no  healing  gift  to  give, 

Warm  from  his  breast,  and  holy  from  his  wings, 

Or  if  at  least  Love's  shadow  in  passing  by 

Touch  not  and  heal  her,  surely  she  must  die. 


99 


DREAMS. 


HE  spake  not  truth,  however  wise,  who  said 
That  happy,  and  that  hapless  men  in  sleep 
Have  equal  fortune,  fallen  from  care  as  deep 
As  countless,  careless,  races  of  the  dead. 
Not  so,  for  alien  paths  of  dreams  we  tread, 
And  one  beholds  the  faces  that  he  sighs 
In  vain  to  bring  before  his  daylit  eyes, 
And  waking,  he  remembers  on  his  bed ; 

And  one  with  fainting  heart  and  feeble  hand 
Fights  a  dim  battle  in  a  doubtful  land, 

Where  strength  and  courage  were  of  no  avail ; 
And  one  is  borne  on  fairy  breezes  far 
To  the  bright  harbours  of  a  golden  star 

Down  fragrant  fleeting  waters  rosy  pale. 


100 


FAIRY  LAND. 

IN  light  of  sunrise  and  sunsetting, 
The  long  days  lingered,  in  forgetting 
That  ever  passion,  keen  to  hold 
What  may  not  tarry,  was  of  old, 
In  lands  beyond  the  weary  wold ; 
Beyond  the  bitter  stream  whose  flood 
Runs  red  waist-high  with  slain  men's  blood. 
Was  beauty  once  a  thing  that  died  ? 
Was  pleasure  never  satisfied  ? 
Was  rest  still  broken  by  the  vain 
Desire  of  action,  bringing  pain, 
To  die  in  languid  rest  again  ? 
All  this  was  quite  forgotten  there, 
Where  never  winter  chilled  the  year, 
Nor  spring  brought  promise  unfulfilled, 
Nor,  with  the  eager  summer  killed, 
The  languid  days  drooped  autumnwards. 
So  magical  a  season  guards 
The  constant  prime  of  a  cool  June ; 
So  slumbrous  is  the  river's  tune, 
That  knows  no  thunder  of  heavy  rains, 
Nor  ever  in  the  summer  wanes, 
Like  waters  of  the  summer  time 
In  lands  far  from  the  Fairy  clime. 

Yea,  there  the  Fairy  maids  are  kind, 
With  nothing  of  the  changeful  mind 


101 


Of  maidens  in  the  days  that  were ; 
And  if  no  laughter  fills  the  air 
With  sound  of  silver  murmurings, 
And  if  no  prayer  of  passion  brings 
A  love  nigh  dead  to  life  again, 
Yet  sighs  more  subtly  sweet  remain, 
And  smiles  that  never  satiate, 
And  loves  that  fear  scarce  any  fate. 
Alas,  no  words  can  bring  the  bloom 
Of  Fairy  Land ;  the  faint  perfume, 
The  sweet  low  light,  the  magic  air, 
To  eyes  of  who  has  not  been  there : 
Alas,  no  words,  nor  any  spell 
Can  lull  the  eyes  that  know  too  well, 
The  lost  fair  world  of  Fairy  Land. 

Ah,  would  that  I  had  never  been 

The  lover  of  the  Fairy  Queen ! 

Or  would  that  through  the  sleepy  town, 

The  grey  old  place  of  Ercildoune, 

And  all  along  the  little  street, 

The  soft  fall  of  the  white  deer's  feet 

Came,  with  the  mystical  command 

That  I  must  back  to  Fairy  Land ! 


102 


TWO  SONNETS  OF  THE  SIRENS. 


'Les  Sirenes  estoient  tant  intimes  amies  et  fidellcs 
compagnes  de  Proserpine,  qu'elles  estoient  toujours 
ensemble.  Esmues  du  juste  deuil  de  la  perte  de  leur 
chere  compagne,  et  enuydes  jusques  au  desespoir,  elles 
s'arresterent  a  la  mer  Sicilienne,  ou  par  leurs  chants 
elles  attiroient  les  navigans,  mais  1'unique  fin  de  la 
volupt^  de  leur  rausique  est  la  Mort.' — PONTUS  DK 
TYARD.  1570. 

I. 

THE  Sirens  once  were  maidens  innocent 
That  through  the  water-meads  with  Proserpine 
Plucked  no  fire-hearted  flowers,  but  were  content 

Cool  fritillaries  and  flag-flowers  to  twine, 

With  lilies  woven  and  with  wet  woodbine ; 
Till  once  they  sought  the  bright  ^Etnaean  flowers, 
And  their  bright  mistress  fled  from  summer  hours 

With  Hades,  down  the  irremeable  decline. 
And  they  have  sought  her  all  the  wide  world  through 

Till  many  years,  and  wisdom  and  much  wrong 
Have  filled  and  changed  their  song,  and  o'er  the  blue 

Rings  deadly  sweet  the  magic  of  the  song, 
And  whoso  hears  must  listen  till  he  die 
Far  on  the  flowery  shores  of  Sicily. 


103 


II. 

So  is  it  with  this  singing  art  of  ours, 
That  once  with  maids  went  maidenlike,  and  played 
With  woven  dances  in  the  poplar-shade, 
And  all  her  song  was  but  of  lady's  bowers 
And  the  returning  swallows,  and  spring-flowers, 
Till  forth  to  seek  a  shadow-queen  she  strayed, 
A  shadowy  land ;  and  now  hath  overweighed 
Her  singing  chaplet  with  the  snow  and  showers. 
Yea,  fair  well-water  for  the  bitter  brine 
She  left,  and  by  the  margin  of  life's  sea 

Sings,  and  her  song  is  full  of  the  sea's  moan, 
And  wild  with  dread,  and  love  of  Proserpine ; 
And  whoso  once  has  listened  to  her,  he 
His  whole  life  long  is  slave  to  her  alone. 


104 


A  LA  BELLE  HfiLENE. 
AFTER  RONSARD. 

MORE  closely  than  the  clinging  vine 
About  the  wedded  tree, 
Clasp  thou  thine  arms,  ah,  mistress  mine! 

About  the  heart  of  me. 
Or  seem  to  sleep,  and  stoop  your  face 

Soft  on  my  sleeping  eyes, 
Breathe  in  your  life,  your  heart,  your  grace, 

Through  me,  in  kissing  wise. 
Bow  down,  bow  down  your  face,  I  pray, 

To  me  that  swoon  to  death, 
Breathe  back  the  life  you  kissed  away, 

Breathe  back  your  kissing  breath. 
So  by  your  eyes  I  swear  and  say, 

My  mighty  oath  and  sure, 
From  your  kind  arms  no  maiden  may 

My  loving  heart  allure. 
Ill  bear  your  yoke,  that's  light  enough, 

And  to  the  Elysian  plain, 
When  we  are  dead  of  love,  my  love, 

One  boat  shall  bear  us  twain. 
They'll  flock  around  you,  fleet  and  fair, 

All  true  loves  that  have  been, 
And  you  of  all  the  shadows  there, 

Shall  be  the  shadow  queen. 
Ah  shadow-loves,  and  shadow-lips  ! 

Ah,  while  'tis  called  to-day, 
Love  me,  my  love,  for  summer  slips, 

And  August  ebbs  away. 


SYLVIE  ET  AURfiLIE. 


IN    MEMORY   OF   GERARD   DE   NERVAL. 

Two  loves  there  were,  and  one  was  born 
Between  the  sunset  and  the  rain ; 
Her  singing  voice  went  through  the  com, 
Her  dance  was  woven  'neath  the  thorn, 

On  grass  the  fallen  blossoms  stain ; 
And  suns  may  set,  and  moons  may  wane, 
But  this  love  comes  no  more  again. 

There  were  two  loves  and  one  made  white 

Thy  singing  lips,  and  golden  hair; 
Born  of  the  city's  mire  and  light, 
The  shame  and  splendour  of  the  night, 
She  trapped  and  fled  thee  unaware ; 
Not  through  the  lamplight  and  the  rain 
Shalt  thou  behold  this  love  again. 

Go  forth  and  seek,  by  wood  and  hill, 
Thine  ancient  love  of  dawn  and  dew; 

There  comes  no  voice  from  mere  or  rill, 

Her  dance  is  over,  fallen  still 

The  ballad  burdens  that  she  knew; 

And  thou  must  wait  for  her  in  vain, 

Till  years  bring  back  thy  youth  again. 


1 06 


That  other  love,  afield,  afar 

Fled  the  light  love,  with  lighter  feet. 

Nay,  though  thou  seek  where  gravesteads  are, 

And  flit  in  dreams  from  star  to  star, 
That  dead  love  shalt  thou  never  meet, 

Till  through  bleak  dawn  and  blowing  rain 

Thy  fled  soul  find  her  soul  again. 


107 


A  LOST  PATH. 


Plotinus,  the  Greek  philosopher,  had  a  certain  proper 
mode  of  ecstasy,  whereby,  as  Porphyry  saith,  his  soul, 
becoming  free  from  his  deathly  flesh,  was  made  one 
with  the  Spirit  that  is  in  the  World. 

ALAS,  the  path  is  lost,  we  cannot  leave 
Our  bright,  our  clouded  life,  and  pass  away 
As  through  strewn  clouds,  that  stain  the  quiet  eve, 

To  heights  remoter  of  the  purer  day. 
The  soul  may  not,  returning  whence  she  came, 

Bathe  herself  deep  in  Being,  and  forget 
The  joys  that  fever,  and  the  cares  that  fret, 

Made  once  more  one  with  the  eternal  flame 

That  breathes  in  all  things  ever  more  the  same. 
She  would  be  young  again,  thus  drinking  deep 

Of  her  old  life ;  and  this  has  been,  men  say, 
But  this  we  know  not,  who  have  only  sleep 

To  soothe  us,  sleep  more  terrible  than  day, 
Where  dead  delights,  and  fair  lost  faces  stray, 

To  make  us  weary  at  our  wakening; 
And  of  that  long-lost  path  to  the  Divine 
We  dream,  as  some  Greek  shepherd  erst  might  sing. 

Half  credulous,  of  easy  Proserpine, 
And  of  the  lands  that  lie  '  beneath  the  day's  decline.' 


108 


THE  SHADE  OF  HELEN. 


Some  say  that  Helen  went  never  to  Troy,  but  abode 
in  Egypt ;  for  the  Gods,  having  made  in  her  semblance 
a  woman  out  of  clouds  and  shadows,  sent  the  same  to 
be  wife  to  Paris.  For  this  shadow  then  the  Greeks  and 
Trojans  slew  each  other. 


WHY  from  the  quiet  hollows  of  the  hills, 
And  extreme  meeting  place  of  light  and  shade, 
Wherein  soft  rains  fell  slowly,  and  became 
Clouds  among  sister  clouds,  where  fair  spent  beams 
And  dying  glories  of  the  sun  would  dwell, 
Why  have  they  whom  I  know  not,  nor  may  know, 
Strange  hands,  unseen  and  ruthless,  fashioned  me  1 
And  borne  me  from  the  silent  shadowy  hills, 
Hither,  to  noise  and  glow  of  alien  life, 
To  harsh  and  clamorous  swords,  and  sound  of  war? 

One  speaks  unto  me  words  that  would  be  sweet, 
Made  harsh,  made  keen  with  love  that  knows  me  not, 
And  some  strange  force  within  me  or  around, 
Makes  answer,  kiss  for  kiss,  and  sigh  for  sigh, 
And  somewhere  there  is  fever  in  the  halls, 
That  troubles  me,  for  no  such  trouble  came 
To  vex  the  cool  far  hollows  of  the  hills. 

The  foolish  folk  crowd  round  me,  and  they  cry, 
That  house,  and  wife,  and  lands,  and  all  Troy  town, 


109 


Are  little  to  lose,  if  they  may  keep  me  here, 
And  see  me  flit,  a  pale  and  silent  shade, 
Among  the  streets  bereft,  and  helpless  shrines. 

At  other  hours  another  life  seems  mine, 
Where  one  great  river  runs  unswollen  of  rain, 
By  pyramids  of  unremembered  kings, 
And  homes  of  men  obedient  to  the  Dead. 
There  dark  and  quiet  faces  come  and  go 
Around  me,  then  again  the  shriek  of  arms, 
And  all  the  turmoil  of  the  Ilian  men. 

What  are  they  ?  even  shadows  such  as  I. 

What  make  they  ?     Even  this  —  the  sport  of  Gods  — 

The  sport  of  Gods,  however  free  they  seem. 

Ah  would  the  game  were  ended,  and  the  light, 

The  blinding  light,  and  all  too  mighty  suns, 

Withdrawn,  and  I  once  more  with  sister  shades, 

Unloved,  forgotten,  mingled  with  the  mist, 

Dwelt  in  the  hollows  of  the  shadowy  hills. 

Ah,  would  'twere  the  cloud's  playtime,  when  the  sun 

Clothes  us  in  raiment  of  a  rosy  flame, 

And  through  the  sky  we  flit,  and  gather  grey, 

Like  men  that  leave  their  golden  youth  behind, 

And  through  their  wind-driven  ways  they  gather  grey, 

And  we  like  them  grow  wan,  and  the  chill  East 

Receives  us,  as  the  Earth  accepts  all  men, — 

But  we  await  the  dawn  of  a  new  day. 


SONNETS  TO  POETS 


I. 

JACQUES  TAHUREAU. 


AH  thou !  that,  undeceived  and  unregretting, 
Saw'st  Death  so  near  thee  on  the  flowery  way, 
And  with  no  sigh  that  life  was  near  the  setting, 
Took'st  the  delight  and  dalliance  of  the  day, 

Happy  thou  wert,  to  live  and  pass  away 
Ere  life  or  love  had  done  thee  any  wrong; 

Ere  thy  wreath  faded,  or  thy  locks  grew  grey, 
Or  summer  came  to  lull  thine  April  song, 
Sweet  as  all  shapes  of  sweet  things  unfulfilled, 
Buds  bloomless,  and  the  broken  violet, 

The  first  spring  days,  the  sounds  and  scents 

thereof; 

So  clear  thy  fire  of  song,  so  early  chilled, 
So  brief,  so  bright  thy  life  that  gaily  met 

Death,  for  thy  Death  came  hand  in  hand  with 
Love. 


II. 


FRANgOIS  VILLON. 
1450. 

LIST,  all  that  love  light  mirth,  light  tears,  and  all 
That  know  the  heart  of  shameful  loves,  or  pure ; 
That  know  delights  depart,  desires  endure, 
A  fevered  tribe  of  ghosts  funereal, 
Widowed  of  dead  delights  gone  out  of  call; 
List,  all  that  deem  the  glory  of  the  rose 
Is  brief  as  last  year's  suns,  or  last  year's  snows 
The  new  suns  melt  from  off  the  sundial. 

All  this  your  master  Villon  knew  and  sung; 

Despised  delights,  and  faint  foredone  desire ; 

And  shame,  a  deathless  worm,  a  quenchless  fire; 
And  laughter  from  the  heart's  last  sorrow  wrung, 

When  half-repentance  but  makes  evil  whole, 

And  prayer  that  cannot  help  wears  out  the  soul. 


114 


III. 


PIERRE  RONSARD. 
1560. 

MASTER,  I  see  thee  with  the  locks  of  grey, 
Crowned  by  the  Muses  with  the  laurel-wreath; 
I  see  the  roses  hiding  underneath, 
Cassandra's  gift ;  she  was  less  dear  than  they. 
Thou,  Master,  first  hast  roused  the  lyric  lay, 

The  sleeping  song  that  the  dead  years  bequeath, 
Hast  sung  sweet  answer  to  the  songs  that  breathe 
Through  ages,  and  through  ages  far  away. 

Yea,  and  in  thee  the  pulse  of  ancient  passion 
Leaped,  and  the  nymphs  amid  the  spring-water 

Made  bare  their  lovely  limbs  in  the  old  fashion, 
And  birds'  song  in  the  branches  was  astir. 

Ah,  but  thy  songs  are  sad,  thy  roses  wan, 

Thy  bees  have  fed  on  yews  Sardinian. 


IV. 

GERARD  DE  NERVAL. 

OF  all  that  were  thy  prisons  —  ah,  untamed, 
Ah,  light  and  sacred  soul! — none  holds  thee 
now; 

No  wall,  no  bar,  no  body  of  flesh,  but  thou 
Art  free  and  happy  in  the  lands  unnamed, 
About  whose  gates,  with  weary  wings  and  maimed, 

Thou  most  wert  wont  to  linger,  entering  there 

A  moment,  and  returning  rapt,  with  fair 
Tidings  that  men  or  heeded  not  or  blamed  ; 

And  they  would  smile  and  wonder,  seeing  where 
Thou  stood'st,  to  watch  light  leaves,  or  clouds,  or  wind, 

Dreamily  murmuring  a  ballad  air, 
Caught  from  the  Valois  peasants ;  dost  thou  find 
Old  prophecies  fulfilled  now,  old  tales  true 
In  the  new  world,  where  all  things  are  made  new  ? 


116 


V. 

THE  DEATH  OF  MIRANDOLA. 
1494. 

'  The  Queen  of  Heaven  appeared,  comforting  him  and 
promising  that  he  should  not  utterly  die.' — THOMAS 
MORE,  Life  of  Piens,  Earl  of  Mirandola. 

STRANGE  lilies  came  with  autumn ;  new  and  old 
Were  mingling,  and  the  old  world  passed  away, 

And  the  night  gathered,  and  the  shadows  grey 
Dimmed  the  kind  eyes  and  dimmed  the  locks  of  gold, 

And  face  beloved  of  Mirandola. 

The  Virgin  then,  to  comfort  him  and  stay, 
Kissed  the  thin  cheek,  and  kissed  the  lips  acold, 

The  lips  unkissed  of  women  many  a  day. 
Nor  she  alone,  for  queens  of  the  old  creed, 

Like  rival  queens  that  tended  Arthur,  there 
Were  gathered,  Venus  in  her  mourning  weed, 
Pallas  and  Dian ;  wise,  and  pure,  and  fair 
Was  he  they  mourned,  who  living  did  not  wrong 
One  altar  of  its  dues  of  wine  and  song. 


117 


LIST  OF  POETS 
TRANSLATED 


LIST  OF  POETS  TRANSLATED. 


I.  CHARLES  D'ORLEANS,  who  has  sometimes,  for  no 
very  obvious  reason,  been  styled  the  father  of  French 
lyric  poetry,  was  born  in  May,  1391.  He  was  the  son 
of  Louis  D'Orleans,  the  grandson  of  Charles  V.,  and 
the  father  of  Louis  XII.  Captured  at  Agincourt,  he 
was  kept  in  England  as  a  prisoner  from  1415  to  1440, 
when  he  returned  to  France,  where  he  died  in  1465. 
His  verses,  for  the  most  part  roundels  on  two  rhymes, 
are  songs  of  love  and  spring,  and  retain  the  allegorical 
forms  of  the  Roman  de  la  Rose. 


II.  FRANCOIS    VILLON,    1431 — 14-?     Nothing  is 
known  of  Villon's  birth  or  death,  and  only  too  much  of 
his  life.    In  his  poems  the  ancient  forms  of  French 
verse  are  animated  with  the  keenest  sense  of  personal 
emotion,  of  love,  of  melancholy,  of  mocking  despair, 
and  of  repentance  for  a  life  passed  in  taverns  and 
prisons. 

III.  JOACHIM  Du  BELLA Y,  1525  — 1560.    The  exact 
date  of  Du  Bellay's  birth  is  unknown.    He  was  certainly 


LIST  OF  POETS  TRANSLATED 

a  little  younger  than  Ronsard,  who  was  born  in  Septem- 
ber, 1524,  although  an  attempt  has  been  made  to  prove 
that  his  birth  took  place  in  1525,  as  a  compensation  from 
Nature  to  France  for  the  battle  of  Pavia.  As  a  poet  Du 
Bellay  had  the  start,  by  a  few  months  of  Ronsard ;  his 
Recueil  was  published  in  1549.  The  question  of  priority 
in  the  new  style  of  poetry  caused  a  quarrel,  which  did 
not  long  separate  the  two  singers.  Du  Bellay  is  perhaps 
the  most  interesting  of  the  Pleiad,  that  company  of 
Seven,  who  attempted  to  reform  French  verse,  by  inspir- 
ing it  with  the  enthusiasm  of  the  Renaissance.  His 
book  L' Illustration  de  la  langue  Franfaise  is  a  plea  for 
the  study  of  ancient  models  and  for  the  improvement  of 
the  vernacular.  In  this  effort  Du  Bellay  and  Ronsard 
are  the  predecessors  of  Malherbe,  and  of  Andre1  Che'nier, 
more  successful  through  their  frank  eagerness  than  the 
former,  less  fortunate  in  the  possession  of  critical  learn- 
ing and  appreciative  taste  than  the  latter.  There  is 
something  in  Du  Bellay's  life,  in  the  artistic  nature 
checked  by  occupation  in  affairs  —  he  was  the  secretary 
of  Cardinal  Du  Bellay — in  the  regret  and  affection 
with  which  Rome  depressed  and  allured  him,  which 
reminds  the  English  reader  of  the  thwarted  career  of 
Clough. 

IV.  RKMY  BELLEAU,  1528 — 1577.      Du  Belleau's 
life  was  spent  in  the  household  of  Charles  de  Lorraine, 
Marquis  d'Elboauf,  and  was  marked  by  nothing  more 
eventful  than  the  usual  pilgrimage  to  Italy,  the  sacred 
land  and  sepulchre  of  art. 

V.  PIERRE  RONSARD,  1524  — 1585.    Ronsard's  early 
years  gave  little  sign  of  his  vocation.     He  was  for  some 
time  a  page  of  the  court,  was  in  the  service  of  James  V. 
of  Scotland,  and  had  his  share  of  shipwrecks,  battles, 
and  amorous  adventures.    An  illness  which  produced 
total  deafness  made  him  a  scholar  and  poet,  as  in  another 
age  and  country  it  might  have  made  him  a  saint  and  an 


LIST  OF  POETS  TRANSLATED 

ascetic.  With  all  his  industry,  and  almost  religious  zeal 
for  art,  he  is  one  of  the  poets  who  make  themselves, 
rather  than  are  born  singers.  His  epic,  the  Franciade, 
is  as  tedious  as  other  artificial  epics,  and  his  odes  are 
almost  unreadable.  We  are  never  allowed  to  forget 
that  he  is  the  poet  who  read  the  Iliad  through  in  three 
days.  He  is,  as  has  been  said  of  Le  Brun,  more  myth- 
ological than  Pindar.  His  constant  allusion  to  his  grey 
hair,  an  affectation  which  may  be  noticed  in  Shelley,  is 
borrowed  from  Anacreon.  Many  of  the  sonnets  in  which 
he  '  petrarquizes,'  retain  the  faded  odour  of  the  roses  he 
loved;  and  his  songs  have  fire  and  melancholy  and  a 
sense  as  of  perfume  from  '  a  closet  long  to  quiet  vowed, 
with  mothed  and  dropping  arras  hung.'  Ronsard's  great 
fame  declined  when  Malherbe  came  to  'bind  the  sweet 
influences  of  the  Pleiad,'  but  he  has  been  duly  honoured 
by  the  newe«t  school  of  French  poetry. 

VI.  JACQUES  TAHURHAU,  1527 — 1555.    The  amor- 
ous poetry  of  Jacques  Tahureau  has  the  merit,  rare  in 
his,  or  in  any  age,  of  being  the  real  expression  of  passion. 
His  brief  life  burned  itself  away  before  he  had  exhausted 
the  lyric  effusion  of  his  youth.     '  Le  plus  beau  gentil- 
homme  de  son  siecle,  et  le  plus  dextre  i  toutes  sortes  de 
gentillesses,'  died  at  the  age  of  twenty-eight,  fulfilling 
the  presentiment  which  tinges,  but  scarcely  saddens  his 
poetry. 

VII.  JEAN  PASSERAT,  1534 — 1602.     Better  known 
as  a  political  satirist  than  as  a  poet. 

POETS  OF  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 

VICTOR  HUGO. 

ALFRED  DE  MUSSBT,  1810  — 1857. 
GERARD  DE  NERVAL,  1801  — 1855. 
HENRI  MURGER,  1822  — 1861. 


LIST  OF  POETS  TRANSLATED 

BALLADS. 

The  originals  of  the  French  folk-songs  here  translated 
are  to  be  found  in  the  collections  of  MM.  De  Puymaigre 
and  Ge'rard  de  Nerval,  and  in  the  report  of  M.  Ampere. 

The  verses  called  a  '  Lady  of  High  Degree '  are 
imitated  from  a  very  early  chanson  in  Bartsch's  collec- 
tion. 

The  Greek  ballads  have  been  translated  with  the  aid 
of  the  French  versions  by  M.  Fauriel. 


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